


Because We're Here

by letsstartagain



Series: We're Here Because We're Here [4]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, Culmets - Freeform, M/M, Origin Story, SpaceBoos, hiatus filler here we go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-02 02:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 30,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12717414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsstartagain/pseuds/letsstartagain
Summary: In which Paul doesn’t drink coffee because if he did, he’d be Wired. He's just in this cafe to snort hot chocolate.Or--recent developments drive Paul to contemplate the past.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Потому что мы здесь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574850) by [allayonel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allayonel/pseuds/allayonel)



NOW

Hugh had always known when Paul was lying, even from that first moment in the cafe on Alpha Centauri. He read it in the flicker of lashes, the barest shift of guilt. For all that Paul took pride in coming across as an arrogant asshole, Hugh had always _known_ that just beneath his scowling exterior lay a painfully sensitive man who resorted to sharp words when the only alternative was genuine emotion.

This had always frightened Paul.

“Paul,” Hugh repeated, hand resting on Paul’s shoulder. Paul turned away. “Paul,” Hugh tried again, “You have to tell me. I can help.”

Paul shook his head, shoulders slumped. He glanced quickly up at the stricken expression on Hugh’s face and flinched, hands clasped in his lap.

“Nothing,” Paul said tightly, eyes fixed on the edge of the biobed, “There’s been nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Hugh said sharply, “You think I can’t tell when you’re lying?”

Paul whipped his head around to stare at him, naked fear warring with uncertainty on his face.

_“Paul.”_

“Hugh--” Paul began.

The sickbay doors hissed open.

Paul dropped his gaze as Lorca strode in.

Hugh stood stiffly beside him, clearly suppressing the urge to seize him by the collar and shake him until the truth rattled from his disgustingly brilliant mind.

“Gentlemen,” Lorca said, pointedly ignoring the tension in the room, “The Starfleet brass is awaiting a full report on the Lieutenant's condition.”

Hugh met Paul’s gaze.

_I’m sorry._

“Well,” Hugh said, “You wanted evidence of an issue with your navigator.” Paul turned away at the forced calm in his voice . “You've got more than you’ve asked for.”

Paul dropped his frown to his lap. Hugh turned stiffly to the biofunction monitor.

“Lieutenant Stamets’s scans show a restructuring of the white matter in the medial temporal lobe,” he explained.

Lorca shifted his attention to Paul, who turned reluctantly to face him.

“You experienced any side effects as a consequence of that?” Lorca asked.

Paul felt Hugh’s eyes fixed on the side of his head as if he could demand the truth by sheer force of will.

Painfully, Paul shook his head.

“No, Captain,” he murmured.

“Well,” Hugh said sharply, fear sharpening anger, “I’m not ready to play roulette with his brain.”

“Duly noted, Doctor,” Lorca said blandly, “Send the report directly to me.”

_“Captain--”_

“--To me, Doctor,” Lorca snapped, eyes flashing. He inclined his head. “And I shall read it.”

Not bothering to hide his dismay, Hugh looked away bitterly. Paul’s chest tightened.

“Lieutenant,” Lorca commanded, already halfway to the door, “Follow me.”

Paul slid off the bed with a half-frightened, half-apologetic look over his shoulder, guilt hanging heavy between them. Lorca’s retreating back disappeared around the corner, but Paul sagged back against the wall in the deserted corridor, hands braced against his knees, head bowed.

The expression of hurt disbelief on Hugh’s face ate at him, gnawed at the pounding in his temples. He swiped a hand across his eyes, the dimly-lit corridor flickering, wavering, smudged as if through a distant lens.

He shook his head violently.

The past. The future?

Driving rain. A hand in his.

Ruthlessly, he forced himself back to the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue borrowed from 1.09.


	2. Prelude, Part 2

**Twenty years earlier...**

Paul hated Alpha Centauri.

He darted across the rain-soaked tarmac, trouser legs slapping wetly at his ankles, irritation quickening his steps. Skidding to a halt under the relative shelter of the hangar eaves, he whipped off his glasses and furiously dried them with the hem of his sweater, slamming them back onto his face to glare at the taillights of the day’s last flight as it disappeared into murderous clouds above.

“Fuck,” he muttered, whipping out his communicator to check the time. He slammed it shut. _“Fuck.”_

He slumped against the cheap, corrugated tin siding at his back and braced his hands on his knees, blinking rapidly. A deep, steadying breath later, he straightened, shouldered his bag, and felt his way through the rapidly-deepening dark along the hangar, hair plastered to his forehead. The lights of the tiny outpost shone feebly across the rain-soaked tarmac, and Paul grimly pushed himself into a shambling jog across the seemingly endless expanse of driving rain and howling wind. Head tucked against the wind, he misjudged the operational validity of “endless” and presently slammed shoulder-first into a solid wooden wall, knocking him flat out onto his back.

Momentarily stunned, he stared through fogged-up glass at the rumbling night, suddenly drowning.

“Hey! _Hey!”_

An unfamiliar voice shattered his self-indulgent fit of _emotions_ , and embarrassed, he scrambled to his feet, the weight of his bag nearly tipping him over again before a sturdy hand found its way under his elbow.

“Are you okay?” the voice said.

Paul bent, bracing himself again on his knees. He blinked rapidly, swiping his hair out of his eyes.

“Yeah,” he shouted over the driving rain, “Fine.”

He squinted sideways into the rain and made out broad shoulders framed by a massive, overlong poncho with the hood drawn down tight against the wind.

“Come on,” poncho-man said, hand still irritatingly fixed around Paul’s arm, “Let’s get you inside.”

Paul lurched away, swiping away the hand.

“Fuck off,” he snarled, “I’m fine.”

Poncho-man hesitated, then dropped his hands to his sides.

“Okay,” he said mildly in a tone that made Paul want to gouge out his ears, “You’re fine. Are you also part Antedian? Because I can’t think of any other race that might enjoy being out in the rain like this.”

“No,” Paul spat, half-blind at this point as the rain smeared itself obscenely across his glasses. He staggered drunkenly towards the support of the wall, “I’m part _fish_.”

Poncho-man dipped his head.

“Okay,” he said. He hesitated again, then continued. “The cafe’s behind you, if, you know--” he shrugged, pulling his boot out of the mud with a sodden squelch, “--you get tired of trying to beach yourself out here. They don’t close for a few hours.”

 _“Fuck off,”_ Paul repeated venomously, scrubbing his hand across his eyes. When he shoved his glasses back on, poncho-man was gone, and he allowed himself to sag against the wall for the second time, throat tight, eyes burning.

He remained hunched there until he was as numb outside as he was inside, which felt like a lifetime in half an instant. Slowly, he curled his hands into fists and shoved them into his pockets, tucking his head against the rain again. He felt his way around the small, sturdy building that emanated the quieting comfort of having been built by hands that had seen many such storms, and soon found himself before a large, solid door under a single, flickering lamp.

He grabbed the door handle with both hands and yanked, nearly slipping onto his back again when it swung open easily despite its apparent weight. Clumsily regaining his feet, he squelched into the brightly-lit room, chin held high despite his general state of complete and utter disarray.

His glasses fogged up immediately from the warmth, and he whipped them off, tucking them carefully into the collar of his sodden sweater as a lost cause, squinting his way instead into a seat at the counter.

Even with the world blurred around him, he sensed that the cafe was mostly empty. In the past, he’d learned that such establishments typically thrummed with the sound of a dozen inconsequential conversations, a phenomenon he’d found irritating and soothing in turns.

Now, he welcomed the silence.

A hazy humanoid figure behind the bar sauntered up to him, and Paul squinted at the menu for a futile moment before glancing back down at the barista and muttering, “Hot chocolate, no sweetener, easy on the milk.”

He turned and fumbled around in his bag for his PADD, miserably swiping water from the screen with a damp hand and powering it back on. His hot chocolate arrived, plunked down in front of him without comment. Paul seized it madly, wrapping his hands around the sturdy, chipped mug and savoring his scalded tongue.

Absently, he scrolled through his messages, enlarging the print so he could see without squinting. An update on lab analyses of yesterday’s specimens from Straal--interesting diploid alternation there, Paul noted, filing away the findings for slightly warmer climes. Several complaints regarding the final exam from cadets who had failed his mandatory seminar last term--he deleted these. If he had to teach to fund his research, he would teach. That didn’t mean he had to make it enjoyable for anyone. An announcement regarding impending doom--namely, the construction of a new block of student housing near the second-busiest intersection on-campus--he didn’t even bother skimming the remainder of the message before freeing up inbox space.

He downed the rest of his hot chocolate and ordered another.

After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled up yesterday’s message from his father and composed a short, quick message about his current situation, sending it off without proofreading just to get it off his chest.

His second hot chocolate arrived, and he fell upon that as well, yielding to temptation and opening Straal’s analysis. Irritably, he pulled on his glasses, smudged away the rain with the driest corner of his sleeve, and dove into the numbers.

Every few minutes, he checked his messages, daring the galaxy to send him an update and cursing it for not doing so. This so fractured his concentration that, after possibly ten minutes of bewildered incomprehension, he realized that he’d been trying to read a mass spec graph upside down. He tossed his PADD onto the counter and raked a hand through his drying hair, restless irritation driving him back to the present to divine the source of his attentional woes and tear it to shreds.

He looked down at the counter. His mug was empty. He ordered another.

He sat back on his stool, still irritated, still restless, and came to the sudden, startling realization that some fucker down the counter was trying to hum Kasseelian opera.

Almost impressed, he turned and looked down the counter, making out another vaguely humanoid figure hunched over a PADD through his smeared glasses. He stared, having, in the past, reduced cadets to tears by this very tactic.

No effect. The humming continued.

His third hot chocolate arrived. He reached out absently, eyes still fixed on the man--it was a man, he was sure. Only human males were capable of such egregious slights against humanity. Slowly, he sipped at his hot chocolate, wincing as it scorched its way down his throat.

The humming paused. Paul held his breath. The humming resumed, repeating what might, under the tutelage of a true Kasseelian musician, have been the exposition.

Paul set his mug down with a sharp clang.

No effect. Irritation swelled.

“Hey,” he called, loudly enough to be heard over the latest hair-raising atonal sequence, “Shut it, or go sit somewhere else. I’m trying to get some work done here.”

The humming paused.

“What do you have against Kasseelian opera?” the man asked, voice rich, amused.

“Nothing,” Paul snapped, “Your _interpretation_ , however, leaves much to be desired, both tonally and rhythmically.”

“Are you a musician?”

“No,” Paul replied scathingly, “But I have ears and a functioning auditory cortex.”

“Funny,” the man said, “Me too.”

Paul clenched his jaw and turned back to his PADD.

The humming resumed, slightly louder.

“For fuck’s sake,” Paul snarled, whipping his head up from his PADD, “Do you _mind?”_

“What are you working on that’s so important?” the man asked, no trace of irritation in his voice.

“Nothing you would understand,” Paul bit out.

The man replied, but in that moment, Paul’s communicator rang out shrilly, and he jumped, nearly upending his mug. He snatched it off his belt and snapped it open.

“Straal,” he muttered, “Thank fuck. I’ve been sending messages, but I don’t think they’ve been getting through.”

“I didn’t get anything, but when I didn’t see you on the manifest, I kind of guessed.”

“Yeah,” Paul said, “I missed the last flight, so I’m stuck here at least another night.”

“Storms?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s the right season.” A short pause. “I’ll let them know.”

Paul clenched his jaw briefly.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Don’t start,” Straal said warningly, “I’ll comm you--or the outpost, if I can’t reach you--if there’s any news.”

“Okay.”

“Stay dry, get some sleep.”

Paul snapped his communicator shut. He gripped it tightly for a moment, its hard edge digging into his bottom lip.

“I didn’t know you could get subspace out here.”

Paul jumped again, dropping his communicator to the floor.

The man, now mere inches away, bent and retrieved it. He looked down at it a moment before holding it back out.

Paul snatched it wordlessly out of his hand and pulled himself back into his seat.

“I didn’t realize you were Starfleet,” the man continued easily, sliding inexplicably into the stool next to his. He gestured to Paul’s sodden sweater and worn trousers. “You on leave?”

 _“Here?”_ Paul snorted before he could help himself, “No.” He caught himself before he elaborated and forced a scowl onto his face, sullenly picking up his mug again.

A long uncomfortable silence followed. Paul fixed his eyes on his PADD, unable to to make head or tail of the scrawled equations through his smudged lenses but refusing to make any indication of his difficulties. The humming, at least, had blessedly ceased.

“Here,” the man said suddenly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small square of cloth. “I think this might make it easier to read all that.”

“I’m fine,” Paul replied stubbornly, cupping his cheek in his hand and turning away.

“Uh huh,” the man said, tossing the cloth over so it landed directly on top of Paul’s PADD.

“What’s your problem?” Paul snapped, seething. He took the cloth and flicked it back into the man’s chest. “I don’t need this. Just leave me alone.”

“I’m just trying to help,” the man said. He held out the cloth again. “It’s giving me a headache just watching you try to read like that.” He cocked his head, curiosity strong in his voice. “I’m guessing you actually need those.”

“What did you think they were,” Paul growled, snatching the goddamn cloth out of the infuriating man’s hand and scrubbing furiously at his lenses, _“A fashion accessory?”_

The man shrugged, leaning casually against the counter.

“There are plenty of cheaper, more convenient options for vision correction,” he said.

“Not for everyone,” Paul bit out. He stuffed his glasses back onto his face, the world clear and bright, and turned back to the man, cloth in one extended hand.

Their eyes met, and Paul froze, color rushing to his face. Hurriedly, he dropped the cloth back into the man’s lap and turned back to his PADD.

Unseen, the man smiled, soft and full of wonder, and tucked the cloth back into his pocket.

“I’m guessing you’re in the science division,” he said, sitting back easily.

“Congratulations,” Paul said drily without looking up from his PADD, “What gave that away?”

“Might have been that huge mess of a mass spec you’ve been staring at since your first hot chocolate. What’s that from--" he squinted over Paul's shoulder, "--some kind of alien mushroom?”

Paul choked quietly on his third gulp of his third cup. The man huffed a small laugh. Paul glared at him as he set his mug down again.

“Fuck you,” he said sourly.

“Please,” the man replied, grinning broadly.

Paul turned quickly to hide the faint quirk to his own lips.

“So,” the man continued, “If you aren’t here on leave, what’s Starfleet got marooning you all the way out here? Shouldn’t a science guy like you be at the university?”

“Fieldwork,” Paul supplied shortly, “Literally.”

“That’s cool,” the man replied, “You get to do this often?”

“No, thankfully.”

“I just stopped over on my way to my fellowship,” the man supplied, “I finished my residency in the spring. Medical. Also Starfleet.” He stabbed the glaringly obvious insignia on his shirt.

“Good for you,” Paul grunted.

The man cocked his head, studying Paul’s profile with no little amusement.

“Are you this rude to everyone,” he asked wryly as Paul brought his mug to his lips again, “Or just the men you find attractive?”

Paul spat chocolate into his mug. Disbelieving, he turned to the man, eyes large, wide, and--the man noted--an impossibly dark blue. For a moment, speech escaped Starfleet’s most irascible astromycologist, and the man smiled. Paul snapped his mouth shut, flushed to the roots of his fair hair. He pressed his lips together.

“Are you always this irritating,” he countered slowly, “Or is it just me?”

“I think it’s just you,” the man replied.

Paul’s eyes searched his face, tired and wary. He sighed and propped himself up on the counter again, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“Look--” he said tightly, face contorted, “I appreciate it. I do. It’s just--” he opened his eyes and gestured searchingly with his free hand, “--probably not the best time.”

“Hey, I’m not ringing the wedding bells just yet,” the man replied, his voice soft, terribly gentle, “Let’s just talk a little. If--” he hesitated, caution creeping into his warm voice, “If you want. If you don’t--” he added quickly, “--that’s fine. I’ll just go back over there--” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder down the counter “--and work on my Kasseelian opera.”

Paul’s lips quirked faintly, and he looked down at his PADD.

“Okay,” the man said after the silence had stretched to a breaking point, “I get it. I’ll--”

“No,” Paul said quickly, looking up in alarm, “That’s--” he closed his eyes briefly, “That’s not what I mean.”

He drummed the fingers of one hand on the table, the other clenched, white-knuckled, around his thigh.

“I’m Paul,” he said.

The man bit his lip around a smile.

“Hugh,” he replied, “I’m Hugh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been so well-done it might as well be beef jerky. But I'm giving it a shot.


	3. Chapter 3

Paul fidgeted, fiddling with the hem of his sweater. His gaze wandered away from Hugh to the counter, and he seized his hot chocolate as a drowning man would a buoy, bringing it eagerly to his lips as a ward against further conversation. He snuck a quick glance over his fogged lenses at Hugh, who watched him with what could only be termed amusement. Paul set his mug down with a sharp clack.

“What?” he snapped.

Hugh’s half-smile broadened, and he shook his head with a quiet huff of laughter.

“I think we’re supposed to be talking to each other,” he said.

“That was your idea,” Paul replied, “So you can start.”

Hugh arched a well-defined eyebrow, swiveled his stool so his back was to the counter, and stretched out both arms, hand settling dangerously near Paul’s.

He cocked his head, looked Paul up and down, and after a long pause, he said, “I like your sweater.”

Paul blinked, then looked down at himself, clearly for the purpose of reminding himself exactly what it was that was seeping damp into his back.

“The maroon,” Hugh continued, “It’s my favorite color.”

Paul looked back up at Hugh.

“It lighter when it’s dry,” he said.

“Like your hair.”

Paul winced minutely.

“What?” Hugh said, grinning at the flush that crept across Paul’s face, “I like it.”

“I’m often mistaken for a corpse,” Paul said blandly.

“You must enjoy that.”

Paul pulled a face and glanced down at his PADD, which remained stubbornly blank. Hugh followed his gaze.

“Waiting for something important,” he said, devoid of question.

Nevertheless, Paul found himself nodding, draining his mug in another gulp. He spun the empty mug between his hands, tracing the rim with a contemplative finger.

Hugh swung his hips back and forth, swiveling the stool on soundless rollers.

“I’m from New York,” he said.

“You don’t sound like it.”

“Yeah? What _do_ I sound like?”

Paul cocked an eyebrow and played it straight.

“A total fucking fruitcake.”

Hugh burst out laughing, high and bright. Unbidden, a smile curled its way across Paul’s face, and he flushed again, staring down into his empty mug.

“Mushroom man’s got a sense of humor,” Hugh snorted, “You really are a fun--”

“--don’t you dare fucking say--”

“--guy.” Hugh grinned. “Fun guy,” he repeated at the comic look of disgust on Paul’s face.

“Go back to your corner,” Paul mock-commanded, jabbing a finger at the vacant seat down the counter, “You make me nauseous.”

Hugh laughed again, eyes bright as Paul rolled his eyes, fingers tapping out a rapid staccato.

“I get that a lot,” Hugh said.

“What?” Paul frowned, “Making people nauseous?”

“No, the total fucking fruitcake thing,” Hugh replied with a short laugh, “I can’t say they’re wrong, though--and I did do a lot of singing as a kid, so I guess it came with the territory.”

“Singing?” Paul asked, propping himself up on an elbow, “You sing?”

“Sang,” Hugh corrected, “I haven’t since puberty slammed into me like a gorn in heat.”

“And when was that?” Paul shot back, “Last year?”

“Very funny.”

Paul squirmed in his seat, feeling his half-frozen feet squelch against his wet socks.

“So,” he said, “What kind of medicine are you into?”

“Well, I can tell you that it doesn’t have anything to do with mushrooms.”

“But you were familiar enough with them to identify a mycelial protein on a mass spec of dubious quality,” Paul said curiously, “How did you know that?”

“Impressed?” Hugh asked.

Paul’s smile softened slightly. He shrugged.

“Maybe.”

Hugh grinned and leaned all the way back, resting his head and shoulders the counter, hands folded on his stomach.

“Good,” he said.

Paul snorted softly, floundering in the dizzying swell of clashing emotions churning his stomach to finely-ground mulch. He glanced down at his PADD again, picking at one of the corners with anxious fingers. Feeling Hugh’s eyes settle on him, he turned and played it off with a strained laugh.

“Important,” he said.

Hugh lifted his head and cocked that same eyebrow.

“I can see that,” he replied.

“Hugh,” Paul burst out abruptly, the name foreign on his lips, “I study intergalactic mushrooms. I _invented_ the field of astromycology. Half of Starfleet Command thinks I’m insane. The other half thinks I’m Zefram Cochrane’s magical lovechild.” His words tumbled out, gathering pace. “Half of Starfleet Command wants to weaponize my research. The other half wants to lock me up, preferably after a frontal lobotomy.” He shrugged, fiddling with the hem of his sweater. “I have exactly one friend, and to no one’s surprise, he also studies intergalactic mushrooms.” Paul shifted on his stool. “Hugh,” he said, meeting large, brown eyes, “I don’t like people.”

Hugh stared at him blankly. Paul fidgeted.

“I’m guessing,” Hugh said after a brief pause, “That linear thought is not your thing.”

Paul pressed his lips together.

“I don’t like people,” he repeated, “And I study mushrooms. Some people in Starfleet Command don’t like that.”

“What, that you study _mushrooms_?”

“ _Intergalactic_ mushrooms,” Paul said impatiently.

“Okay,” Hugh said slowly.

“Look,” Paul said, leg jiggling restlessly, “I’m just trying to be upfront with you.”

“Okay,” Hugh repeated. He propped himself up on one elbow. “I appreciate that.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Paul snapped, “I don’t--”

His communicator chirped shrilly.

Fear flickered across his face as he turned sharply away without a word, snatching the communicator up from his belt with thinly-veiled desperation and stalking away to the far corner of the room.

“Straal,” he said tersely into his communicator, “What is it?”

“I just spoke with your dad.”

Paul swallowed, strangely light-headed.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Paul, I--” Straal hesitated, uncharacteristic uncertainty in his voice.

Paul closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the window, each drop of wind-lashed rain drumming defeat into his skull.

“It’s okay,” he muttered, “Just say it.”

“Your mom passed a few hours ago. I’m sorry.”

Paul clenched his jaw, pressing himself into frozen glass, frozen time.

“Paul?” Straal said in his ear.

Paul sucked in a quiet breath, opened his eyes.

“Yeah,” he rasped, “Thanks--” his voice broke, and he tried again, “Thanks for letting me know.”

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, brow furrowed. “I’ll be back late tomorrow, figure things out then.”

“Okay.”

“Is there anything I _should_ be doing?” Paul said quickly, “I don’t--I don’t know if there’s anything--”

“--I’ll take care of it,” Straal said firmly, “Put in your request for leave, all of that. If there’s anything I can’t deal with, I’ll let you know.”

“I can do all of that,” Paul protested, “You don’t--”

“--I know, but I want to. Besides, if I didn’t put in your leave for you, you’d just use that as an excuse to come in.”

“I have work to do.”

“Yeah, and none of it should involve stepping foot on campus. Go _home,_ Paul.” Straal paused another moment, voice softening. “Take it from me. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

“I’ll think about it,” Paul muttered.

Straal sighed.

“You have a room for tonight?” he asked.

Paul ducked his head, staring at his scuffed boots.

“Yeah,” he lied.

“Okay, good,” Straal replied, “I’m impressed.”

“Yeah,” Paul repeated.

A pause.

“I’m really sorry, Paul. She was a fantastic person.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“I’ll comm you in the morning. Sooner, if anything changes.”

Paul swallowed a bitter laugh.

“Okay,” he said.

“Take care, Paul.”

“Yeah.”

Paul scrubbed a hand across his face. He flipped his communicator shut and stabbed it back onto his belt, fumbling fingers missing on the first try, succeeding on the second. Crossing his arms tightly across his chest, he stared through his ghostly reflection at the endless dark. His throat swelled, and he swallowed painfully, lips pressed together, heat rising in his face.

He shivered, the damp seeping through thin skin.

Self-loathing rushed through him, and he inhaled sharply again, forcing his chin up, his shoulders back. He turned for the counter and made his way back across the room through the thickest of fogs. He reclaimed his stool silently and sat, contemplating his empty mug.

“Bad news,” Hugh said quietly.

“It’s fine,” Paul replied roughly. He picked up his PADD and started shoving it into his bag, hands trembling badly. “I, uh, have to go.”

Hugh laughed quietly.

“Exactly how stupid do you think I am?” he said, standing and gently taking the PADD from Paul’s hand. Paul stared as he carefully wiggled it through layers of clothing and specimen tablets back into the bag.

Hugh strapped Paul’s bag shut again and held it out to him silently.

“I’m sorry,” he said, warm eyes soft, genuine, “About whatever happened.”

Paul looked away and took his bag, slinging it heavily across a shoulder.

“It’s--” he began, voice cracking again. He ducked his head, blinking furiously. Licked his lips. He looked back up at Hugh, who was very close, concern written across his face. “It’s not you,” he said.

Hugh smiled crookedly.

“I hope not,” he replied, full of wry humor, “If I’d known Kasseelian opera would have this sort of effect on the man of my dreams, I might have reconsidered my strategy.”

Paul choked out a laugh.

“Regardless,” he said hoarsely, “Please do.”

Silence stretched between them again.

“Listen,” Hugh said, shifting slightly, “I don’t want this to come across the way I think it’s going to, but do you have anywhere to stay tonight? It’s just… I have a room upstairs--don’t worry, it’s a double--and… you look like you might not want to be on your own tonight.” Hugh stopped dead. “Not that I’m suggesting anything,” he added quickly. At the startled look on Paul’s face, he added, “It’s a double. Two beds. Off-season rates, you know.” He trailed off, a faint tinge of red to his ears. “Two beds,” he repeated, "Separate."

Paul blinked.

“I’m not going to be very good company tonight,” he hedged.

Hugh cocked his head.

“That’s really saying something,” he said drily.

Paul flushed, looking away.

“No Kasseelian opera,” Hugh continued, “I promise.”

Paul bit his lip, sodden fatigue settling into his bones. His sweater clung heavily to his shoulders, a mantle he’d never desired.

“Fine,” he said quietly, “I’m holding you to that.”

Hugh smiled, small and reassuring. Wordlessly, he reached out and took Paul’s bag, settling it across his own shoulder.

“Come on,” he said quietly, hand large and warm between Paul’s shoulders, “Let’s go.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Well,” Paul said, hovering in the doorway, “This is nice.”

Hugh turned, setting Paul’s bag down beside a massively overstuffed chair with a small smile. 

“Thanks,” he replied, bone-dry.

Paul stepped cautiously into the room, allowing the door to swing silently shut behind him.

“There’s a bathroom back there,” Hugh said, waving a hand at a door on the far side of the room. He cast a critical eye over Paul’s damp hair and sodden sweater. “You should probably go take a hot shower or something. I have clothes if you need them”

Paul looked down at himself and shifted uneasily.

“I think I’m fine,” he said, “I’ll probably just change and sleep.”

“Do you actually have any dry clothes in there?” Hugh asked, looking askance at Paul’s equally sodden bag.

Paul shrugged stiffly and crouched, unstrapping the damp-cool closures and pulling them open. He stuck in a hand and rummaged around, withdrawing a balled-up pair of trousers and a crumpled shirt. Hugh watched in skeptical silence as Paul schlepped by him to the bathroom, jaw set, eyes dark and brooding.

In the unsurprisingly cramped bathroom, Paul peeled off his sweater, dropping it with a wet slap to the counter. Ignoring his pale reflection in the mirror, he quickly pulled his relatively dry shirt over his head, reflexively smoothing his hand down the front. The trousers followed, and he stood for a moment, slightly damp, in another man’s bathroom. 

He caught his own gaze in the mirror and turned sharply, gathering up his wet clothes and shoving the door open.

Hugh looked up in mild alarm from around an armful of blankets as Paul burst back into the room.

“Which bed do you want?” he asked neutrally.

“Doesn’t matter,” Paul replied tersely, slinging his wet things across the back of the overstuffed chair,  “I’ll take care of all that.”

“Uh huh,” Hugh said, pointedly snapping open the bedspread with one practiced movement and draping it over the empty bed by the door.

Paul turned away, arms crossed tightly, and paced to the window, blankly fixated on the depthless dark. The mingled rustling of cloth behind and thundering rain before lulled him into a strange, timeless peace, chest tight but not bursting, eyes full but not overflowing. He clung to it desperately, longing for the in-between.

A gentle touch on his shoulder shattered the stillness, and Paul ducked his head, shying away.

“Hey,” Hugh said, genuine apology in his voice, “Sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“--It’s fine,” Paul interrupted, meeting his eyes briefly before fixing his gaze at some intermediate point over Hugh’s shoulder.

Hugh cocked his head slightly, an action Paul now realized was endearingly habitual.

“Look,” Hugh said quietly, “I don’t know what’s going on, but if there’s anything I can do--”

“--No,” Paul snapped, “There isn’t anything you can do.  _ Anyone  _ can do.”

Hugh withdrew slightly, the very tips of his fingers only just brushing Paul’s elbow. Paul leaned ever so slightly into the contact, pale and drawn in the gloomy light. Hugh watched him steadily for a long moment before gently, slowly running his hands down Paul’s arms, hesitating at his wrists before sliding their hands together, fingers twined around each other.

“I know it doesn’t help,” he said quietly, “But I’m sorry.”

Paul dropped his head, their joined hands blurring as full became overflowing. He looked up at Hugh from under pale, glistening lashes, quivering silently. Hugh’s smile broke, and he placed a warm hand against Paul’s flushed cheek.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he murmured, gently running his thumb through the fine hair at Paul’s temple.

Paul turned away, hand tightening around Hugh’s. He licked his lips, brow furrowed, and swallowed audibly. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

“That’s fine,” Hugh replied. He smiled sadly again, tipping Paul’s stubborn chin up with a finger. “It’s also fine to cry, you know,” he said, “You’ve already heard me humming Kasseelian opera, so I don’t think either of us has a reputation left to lose.”

Paul cracked a brittle smile.

“I study mushrooms,” he croaked.

“ _ Intergalactic _ mushrooms.”

Paul dropped his head again, and carefully, Hugh mimicked him so their foreheads only just touched. They stood in silent stillness, absolute.

“I think I like you,” Hugh murmured.

“I don’t like people,” Paul muttered.

“You’re a shitty liar.”

Paul huffed a laugh.

“Is it really that obvious?” he whispered.

Hugh pulled back, tipped Paul’s chin up again so their eyes met.

“Only to those who’re looking,” he replied.

* * *

Paul’s communicator shrilled an alarm at an ungodly hour the next morning.

Bolting upright, he snatched it from under his pillow and flipped it open, pressing it to his ear in furious irritation.

“Who the fuck is this?” he snarled, swinging his legs out from under the covers. Across the room, Hugh stirred groggily, eyes cracking open in curiosity.

“Paul.”

Paul stiffened. He shot a look of apology at Hugh, who sat up and mouthed “It’s fine” with as much sincerity as one could possibly muster a few too many hours before daybreak, and darted out into the hall, closing the door quietly behind him and bringing the communicator back up to his ear.

“--you there?”

“Yeah,” Paul replied, squinting and pinching the bridge of his nose, “How did you get this number? No, wait--” another thought occurred to him, “--how do you have access to subspace communications?”

“Really? We don’t speak for how long, and--”

“--Mark--”

“--Paul, goddamnit, you need to come home.” 

Paul propped himself up against the windowsill at the end of the hall.

“What the  _ fuck _ makes you think I’m not going to be there?” he hissed, “It’s--” he choked, forced the words out, “This is  _ different _ .”

“You think I don’t know how you work? There’s going to be some last-minute test you need to run, some supervision you need to do--

“--it’s not like you--”

“No, that’s the point. I _ haven’t _ , Paul. I don’t get to jump off to some random galaxy every time I want to get away from everything.” A deep breath, crackling across the lightyears. “Listen, can we do this later? I’m not mad, okay? As much as I want to be, I can’t be mad right now.” Paul shifted, tucking one frigid hand under his arm, the other frozen to his communicator. “Just,  _ please _ actually get your ass back home this time?”

“Yeah,” Paul snapped, “I’ll  _ be _ there.”

“Or else I’ll stowaway on the next transport to Alpha Centauri and skin you alive.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Whatever. I’ll pick you up at the spaceport tomorrow, drive you back out.”

“No, Straal--”

“--Straal’s done enough for us. I can take care of this.” Another pause. “Are you  _ sure _ you two aren’t--”

“-- _ fuck’s  _ sake, Mark.”

“Just asking.”

Paul smiled faintly, shifting slightly to keep his feet from freezing to the floor.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

“Yeah.”

Paul flipped his communicator shut and tucked it into the pocket of his trousers, rocking slightly back and forth. He shook his head, unexpectedly warmed, and slipped quietly back into Hugh’s room.

“Everything okay?” Hugh asked the moment the door had swung to.

“Yeah,” Paul said, crawling back under his covers, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Hugh looked over at him.

“It’s fine,” he said.

Paul flipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

“I have to go home tomorrow,” he said, the words flat, hollow.

He heard Hugh shift, bedsprings creaking.

“Not a good thing?” Hugh asked.

“I don’t know.” Paul fiddled with the frayed hem of his blanket.

“When was the last time you were back?”

“Couple years.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s been busy.”

“Yeah.”

Paul turned onto his side to face Hugh, who was just a deeper shadow in a dark room.

“I’m catching the first flight out,” he said hesitantly, “It’ll be early, so--”

“--I’ll be up,” Hugh said.

Paul shut his mouth. Opened it. Shut it again.

Closed his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Miserable grey rain rattled against the rusted hangar eaves.

Paul suppressed a shiver and blinked through the thick fog at the struggling engine lights of his waiting shuttle. He shifted and pulled his damp sleeves up over his hands, chafing them futilely against his sides.

“You must really like that sweater.”

Paul turned sharply, bag smacking into the side of the hangar with a dull thud.

“Whoa,” Hugh said, grinning, “I’m not going to rip it off you or anything.”

“What are you doing here?” Paul demanded, regaining his equilibrium with difficulty.

“I said I’d be here,” Hugh replied. He cocked his head appraisingly. “You left earlier than you said you would. Should have woken me up.”

Paul shrugged, glancing back over his shoulder at the waiting transport. Hugh raised an eyebrow.

“I'm guessing you haven’t eaten,” Hugh said, pulling a large, crinkled bag from beneath his poncho and holding it out, “So here.”

Paul stared blankly at the bag, a moth drawn to flame.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“All your bullshit,” Hugh replied cheerfully, stepping forward and shoving the bag into Paul’s chest, “You can hold on to it.”

Paul looked up at him in alarm.

“What?” he choked.

Hugh pressed his lips together and swallowed what sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“It’s your breakfast, Paul,” he replied drily, “I was trying to be metaphorical, but--”

Paul snatched the package out of Hugh’s hand and shivered at its warmth.

“You’re welcome,” Hugh said.

“Why’d you get me _breakfast?_ ” Paul said, peering into the bag.

“Because I’m a medical professional.”

“Well,” Paul frowned, “I appreciate your dedication, but--”

“--No, you idiot,” Hugh snapped, “I didn’t almost break my neck sprinting across that fucking _mud-bog_ \--” he jabbed a finger behind him “--to bring you two fake Earth bagels and a goddamn  _boiling_ hot chocolate before your shuttle left because I’m a _doctor_.”

Paul blinked, frozen in the process of pulling out said goddamn boiling hot chocolate.

At this, Hugh huffed a quiet laugh and stepped back with a rueful shake of his head.

He jerked his chin at the steaming cup of hot chocolate.

“My number’s on the lid,” he said, rocking back on his heels, “If you wanted to--ah. Stay in touch.”

Paul looked down at the cup.

“Oh shit,” he said. He looked back up at Hugh, flushing badly. “You’re serious.” Hugh waited, eyebrows raised, heart hammering. “You--” Paul blinked rapidly, shoving his glasses back up his nose with the heel of his hand. “I--” he licked his lips, “--I don’t--” Furiously, he swallowed away the constriction in his throat. “How is this supposed to work?” he demanded.

“Any way it will,” Hugh replied.

 _“What?”_ Paul snapped.

Impulsively, Hugh wrapped a hand around Paul’s wrist.

“Go home,” he said, dark eyes warm, steady, “Take time. When you’re ready--” he smiled faintly, “--call me.”

In the sodden beyond, the shuttle’s thrusters roared to life. A warning blared itself out of the outpost intercom.

“Hugh,” Paul said hoarsely, “I don’t--”

“--I think you’re a beautiful man,” Hugh said. He smirked. “Even if you _are_ part fish.”

Paul blinked, and Hugh laughed, high and clear.

A second warning rang through the gloom.

“You should go,” Hugh said, smile fading, but only slowly, “The forecast’s looking pretty awful. Probably won’t be anymore flights until this afternoon.”

“Yeah,” Paul said. He stuffed the bag of bagels under his arm and held out his hand. “Give me your communicator.”

Hugh dropped it into his hand, and Paul typed furiously for a brief moment before handing it back.

“That’s my number,” he said drily, “Coffee cups are so 21st century.”

A grin broke out across Hugh’s face.

“That isn’t coffee,” he pointed out, “It’s hot chocolate.”

“Fuck off,” Paul muttered. He looked out at the waiting shuttle, then back at Hugh. “See you--soon?” he said quietly.

Hugh gripped his hand tightly.

“Talk sooner,” he replied.

A pale smile flickered across Paul’s face, and he turned away, ducking his head against the rain.

Hugh watched him trudge across the tarmac, a small, insignificant figure weighed down by unspeakable burden. His chest ached, and his eyes strained as rain and fog swallowed him up. Thrusters whined, engines thrummed, and glowing tail lights rose into the cloud-choked sky.

Hugh raised his hand, a small, insignificant gesture, and watched light disappear into uncertainty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Tuesday, sometime in the PM PST


	6. Chapter 6

After too many words had been said, Paul sat alone in the back of the synagogue. Dimly, he sensed Straal hovering in his periphery, loyally standing guard in the lobby. Guilt fractured, and he looked down at his his hands, picking at the tip of the tie that had belonged to his grandfather’s father’s father.

It was a small synagogue.

He fixed his eyes on the unadorned coffin, hewn by his father’s own hand while he had been caught between galaxies, between universes. His chest tightened, and he looked away, flushed with shame.

The silence swelled and thickened. He heard, behind him, the rustle of carcasses as dead leaves tumbled across the open doorway.

“Paul.”

He looked up, fingers a sweaty mess in his tie.

“Ready to go? Everyone’s already on their way to the cemetery.”

Paul stood stiffly, hands jammed into his pockets. Mark, eyes bright and red-rimmed, smiled faintly and gently touched their shoulders together as they exited into the lobby, from which Straal had mysteriously disappeared.

“Thanks,” Paul said with difficulty, “For putting all this together.”

Mark shrugged, narrow shoulders swimming in one of their father’s old suit jackets.

“When do you need to go back?” he asked

Paul looked away, pacing out into the absurdly warm autumn afternoon. Mark, lips pressed together, followed.

“I have enough leave accrued to be away for a while,” Paul replied eventually, squinting through the trees, “So not for a week, at least.” He struggled for words. “Thought I might sit shiva with you and Dad. Or maybe we could alternate days or something, if that would help.”

Mark laughed drily.

“Honestly,” he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think that’d just make everything weird.”

Paul swallowed and shrugged an identical shrug.

“But I’ll bring it up with Dad,” Mark added, “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

“You’re the one who had the bar mitzvah.”

“Yeah, and look at me now.”

Paul glanced at him, a slight quirk to his lips.

“Still making those films?” he asked.

“Sort of, yeah. Still studying alien mushrooms?”

“Sort of, yeah.”

“You know I hate it when you do that.”

“I’m older than you.”

“Yeah,” Mark sighed, long-suffering, “By twenty-six minutes.”

Paul smiled grimly.

“Exactly.”

Mark scuffed his heel along the gravel path, ratty shoes stirring up small clouds of dust. Paul licked his lips.

“How’s--ah--”

Mark glanced at him curiously.

“--Maureen?” he supplied.

“Yeah,” Paul said, seizing on the name. Gravel crunched crisply beneath his boots as they wound their way through the deserted grounds. “You still dating her?”

Mark barked out a sharp laugh.

“No, we broke up about--” he trailed off, frowning quizzically, “--almost two years ago now.” He turned back to Paul. “Right after you left last time.”

“Right,” Paul muttered, tugging at his collar, “Should I drop it?”

Mark shrugged, nudging his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“Okay,” Paul said.

Silently, they left the synagogue grounds and made their way to the broad, grassy lane ingrained in Paul’s memory. Bitterly, he tucked his chin to his chest and quickened his pace.

“You know," he said suddenly, "Would it be easier if I just left?”

Beside him, Mark faltered slightly.

“Easier for who?” he asked. _It’s not like you’re really here anyways._

“You know what I mean,” Paul snapped.

“You can’t fucking ask me this,” Mark said sharply, steps tight, rigidly controlled, “Don’t fucking put this on me.”

“But you see it,” Paul retorted, “Every time he looks at me, like he’s trying _so hard_ to pretend I’m someone else.”

“I’m not the apple of his eye either, you know. I dropped out of college to be a _filmmaker_. In _New York_ , the seething hotbed of sin and gay aliens.”

Paul shrugged, an angry, practiced movement.

“At least you try,” he said. He fiddled with his glasses. “It was easier with Mom.”

Paul felt Mark’s eyes on him.

“Give him a chance, Paul,” Mark said quietly.

“I _did_ ,” Paul snarled, rounding on him. They came to a standoff in the middle of the tree-lined lane. “You know I did.”

“You took off for Starfleet almost before the words were even out of your mouth! And since then, it’s been--”

“--This is the fucking twenty-third century!” Paul shouted, hurt shattering the thin veneer of anger, “Where the fuck else in the fucking _universe_ is it such a big deal that--God _damn_ \--I might like guys more than I like girls?”

“I don’t--”

“--Ah, _fuck_ ,” Paul spat, stalking away, “This whole thing was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come back. It’s too late for anything.” He turned sharply back to Mark, who watched him with a familiar helpless resignation. “I’m heading back to San Francisco. Tell him whatever the fuck you want.”

“Paul--”

“--don’t take his side,” Paul bit out, “Please don’t.”

“I’m not taking his _side_ ,” Mark said heatedly, “Why is everything always an argument with you? I’m just saying that you two should, for once in your lives, sit down and _talk--_ and not just about _that._ ” Mark gestured emphatically at Paul.

Paul shook his head vigorously.

“It’s too late for that,” he said, stabbing a hand up the lane to the empty synagogue, “What’s the point now?”

He turned to leave.

Mark stepped after him, fists clenched.

“For somebody who’s always been let down,” he spat, “You sure as _fuck_ don’t seem to care who you leave behind when you skip out.”

Paul whirled, flushed with unspent emotion.

“For someone who’s tried to make this family his _own_ ,” he snarled, “You sure as fuck do a great job in New York, _alone_.” He jabbed a finger into Mark’s chest. " _Don’t_ throw my words back in my face.”

“Paul--”

Half a sob wrenched itself from Paul’s chest, and he turned sharply away again, storming off through the trees.

Mark watched him go, stomach twisted, hard.

* * *

Paul’s communicator chirped just as he hopped off the transport on the San Francisco campus. He swore under his breath and snatched it from his belt, acutely conscious of his suit and tie in the sea of Starfleet uniforms.

“What, Straal?” he snapped.

“Your twin brother just left for New York in tears, you’re back in San Francisco, and _I’m_ here alone with _your_ father at your _mother's_ grave, so you tell me.”

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose and shouldered his way through the crowd, flashing his Starfleet credentials at the entrance scanner to his building.

“Everything’s fine,” he said, “You don’t have to stay.”

“Paul,” Straal said, exasperated, “I can’t just leave your father alone. There’s literally no one else here.”

“He’ll be fine,” Paul spat. He punched the lift call button impatiently, “Just leave.”

“ _Paul--_ ”

Paul flipped his communicator shut, jaw set, and stepped into the lift, waiting in agonizing silence for the doors to close, the lift to climb, the doors to open. He stalked out of the lift down the corridor to his room, hands trembling slightly as he keyed open the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Frantic, fumbling hands tore off his tie, hurling it into the corner of the room. Two quick strides brought him to his desk, and he slammed the tri-level display on, wrenching off his suit jacket and undoing his cuffs as he did so. His inbox flashed some obscene number, and he dove into it with masochistic satisfaction, shoulders rigid.

He finally admitted he was crying when the tears smudged against his glasses.

Violently, he slammed them down onto his desk and shoved himself to his feet, pacing across the room, chest heaving. Soundlessly, he sobbed, hand pressed to his mouth, back pressed to the wall, guilt and shame sinking deep into his bones. He threw his head back against the wall with an angry crack, jaw clenched, hands wrapped around the gaping hole in his stomach.

Mark’s face swam in his memory, impossibly young, impossibly old. Tired. Crumpled leaves--a death rattle.

His communicator chirped.

“Fuck,” he gasped, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes, “ _Fuck._ ”

His communicator chirped again. He shut his eyes and slowly pulled it from his belt. Stared at it. Dared it to chirp again.

It did.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Clumsily, he flipped it open and brought it to his ear.

“Stamets,” he said hoarsely.

“Wow, sorry,” a vaguely familiar voice said, “Were you sleeping?”

Paul blinked blankly at the ceiling.

“What?” he rasped.

“Oh,” the voice said, “Sorry. It’s Hugh.”

“Hugh?”

A pause.

“Uh, Kasseelian opera Hugh?”

Paul jerked himself upright.

“ _Hugh_ ,” he repeated, swiping at his eyes again, “Hugh, yeah. Hugh. Hey.”

“Bad time,” Hugh said.

Paul braced his forehead on his knees.

“No, it’s fine,” he replied.

A pregnant pause.

“You really are a shitty liar, even over the phone.”

Paul thunked his head back against the wall.

“Is that what you called to tell me?”

“Of course. I feel like that’s the sort of thing that warrants a daily reminder.”

Paul’s lips twitched faintly, and he stretched his legs out before him.

“I think you’re going to need a better reason to be calling me up every day.”

“Really?”

“No.”

A small scuffle from the other end of the line, the sound of a door sighing shut.

“Are you at home right now?” Hugh asked, voice clearer, crisper.

“Yeah,” Paul said, absurdly.

“Bullshit,” Hugh replied conversationally, “Why not?”

Paul sighed, struggling for words. Late afternoon sun streamed through the slatted window blinds, striking him flatly in the face.

“It’s a long story,” he muttered.

“Well, I just finished my first rotation,” Hugh said, “So I’ve got all night.”

“I just didn’t want to be there,” Paul replied tightly, drumming his fingers on his thigh, “And it’s really not my favorite topic of conversation.”

“Okay,” Hugh said, tone implying anything but, “You know I’m going to pull it out of you eventually, right?”

Paul snorted wetly, “I’d like to see you try.”

Hugh laughed, tugging a smile onto Paul’s face.

“So,” Paul said after a quiet, measured breath, “Are the hospitals on Alpha Centauri any better than their cafes?”

“ _Much_ ,” Hugh replied, “UH is pretty cutting-edge, which makes sense if you think about the fact that Alpha Centauri was one of the first systems to be colonized. They also pioneered the first applications of FTL tech for the health field, so I think it’s safe to say that I’m a fan.”

“I was there for a biophysics conference a few years ago. It was--” Paul searched for a word, “--not terrible.”

Hugh laughed.

“We can’t _all_ be prodigies, Paul. There have to be enough idiots left over in the world to become doctors and lawyers.”

“You’d think in the twenty-third century that biophysics would be less of a fringe science than it still is. It’s the fucking future of scientific discovery, this hybridization of the macro and micro. There’s a spectrum where they meet-- _somewhere_.”

“So--intergalactic space mushrooms.”

Paul sighed.

“Something like that.”

“But why mushrooms? Why not algae or some other... hallucinogenic bryophyte?”

Paul rolled his eyes.

“It’s something far more primitive--a mycelial, almost bacterial thing--that might be the biological equivalent of Newton’s gravitational waves: invisible, almost impossible to detect, but also the direct product of a massive kinetic reaction.”

A pause.

“You know, that sounds a little cooler than I thought it would be.”

“Right?” Paul grinned.

“I’m beginning to get a sense for my competition.”

Paul frowned, hauling himself to his feet so he could close the blinds.

“What competition?” he asked.

“I might need to have a word with these fungi if I ever want to have you to myself.”

Paul flushed, setting his communicator to speaker mode and placing it on his desk.

“Good luck with that,” he replied, “I hear they’re not particularly receptive to reason.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Hugh said.

Paul, blind-shutting complete, dropped back into his chair and shoved his glasses back onto his face.

“What time is it over there?” he asked suddenly.

“Just past midnight,” Hugh replied, “Perks of being on Alpha Centauri--I get my own room.”

“Shit, go to sleep.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m on the night shift for the next few weeks, so I should probably try to jam my suprachiasmatic nucleus into gear.”

Paul snorted a startled laugh.

“What?” Hugh said, mock affront laced with easy humor, “I did my undergrad in neuroscience.”

“Someone’s feeling insecure.”

“Only around you.”

Paul smiled, cracked and parched. In the comfortable silence that followed, he sat back and toed off his stiff boots, kicking them into the pile of once-worn, never-washed clothing under his desk.

“So, you have any plans for the rest of today?” Hugh said.

“I’ll probably head down to the lab and catch up on some work. Check how many of my undergrads killed off how many of my specimens.” Paul paused. “That might make an interesting study on its own--'The Incompetence of Undergraduate Researchers in a University Lab Setting As Measured by Fungal Mortality.'”

Hugh laughed quietly.

“You teach?”

Paul pulled a face, quickly discarding an irritated message from Straal that flickered across his screen.

“If you can call it that,” he scoffed, “It’s like trying to boil water in a plastic bottle--the plastic melts, the water gets everywhere, and the burner shorts out.”

“That was very generous of you.”

“I try.” Paul pawed again at his gritty eyes and sniffled loudly. “My ‘fringe’ research is contingent on me sleepwalking through a lower-div undergrad course on cell biology every semester. It’s a real fucking pain in the ass, but--” he shrugged to an invisible audience “--it keeps the admin brass happy.”

“Oh, I’m so proud.”

“I fail about a quarter of my students each term.”

“I take that back.”

An incoming video call from Straal blared from the monitor, and Paul winced, slamming a finger down on the ‘Decline’ command.

“You have another call?” Hugh asked.

“It’s just my roommate,” Paul replied, spinning around in his chair, “He’s a little pissed at me.”

“About what?”

“Stupid shit.”

“Shitty liar.”

Paul threw his hands up into the air in silent aggravation.

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

“How _old_ are you?”

“Twenty-nine. You?”

“I didn’t mean that--” Paul cut himself off and sighed. “Twenty-six. I’m twenty-six.”

“Well, given my full three years’ life experience on you, I’m telling you to sort your ‘stupid shit’ out with your roommate. Sooner rather than later. And by ‘sooner,’ I mean ‘now.’”

“What the fu--”

“--I’m hanging up now, darling,” Hugh said blithely, “I’m exhausted, and my SCN reprogramming’s gonna have to wait. Call you tomorrow around the same time?”

“Hugh, what the fuck--”

“--Great,” Hugh replied, “I’ll expect a full report tomorrow, and save the bullshit for your undergrads.”

“ _Hugh--_ ”

The call disconnected, and Paul stared blankly at his communicator, feeling distinctly poleaxed.

Another video call demand from Straal flared silently on his monitor. He stared at it for a moment, stomach churning, then stood sharply and disconnected the power to his computer.

In the sudden, startling darkness, he felt his way to his closet and changed into his uniform, crumpling up his shirt and trousers and hurling them under his desk. Filled with the restless, ceaseless urge for escape, he swept from the room, leaving his communicator open, unanswered, on his desk.


	7. Chapter 7

ONE WEEK

“Sorry,” Hugh said, voice crackling slightly, “My mom called.” He laughed softly, fondness evident in his voice. “She calls every week, but every time we say goodbye, it’s like she thinks we’ll never see each other again. Goes on and on and _on_...”

Paul mustered up a strangled laugh.

“It’s okay,” he replied, sprawled across his bed, staring at the ceiling, “I was working on stuff.”

“Yeah? More hydrospecs?”

Paul shifted his communicator closer to his mouth, balancing it on his chest and stretching his arms out behind his head.

“No,” he said sourly, “Term papers.”

“Oh, darling, I’m sorry,” Hugh laughed, and Paul closed his eyes, imagining the smirk on his face, the tilt of his chin, “You don’t have TAs?”

“I’m not allowed any anymore,” Paul muttered.

“ _What?_ ” Hugh snorted, “What'd you do, work them to death?”

“ _No_ ,” Paul snapped, clearly defensive, “We just... didn’t get along.”

“What a surprise.”

Paul scowled and rolled over onto his stomach, picking at the nonexistent lint on his bedspread.

“And they didn’t exactly appreciate being told what to do by a guy who didn’t look old enough to be a freshman at Hicksville High.”

“No one asked you to be a prodigy.”

“Well,” Paul said irritably, “I didn’t ask to _be_ one.”

He heard Hugh smile.

“ _What?_ ” he snapped.

“I’m just trying to picture you--how old were you when you got your PhD? Twenty, twenty-one?”

“Nineteen,” Paul said savagely, “And it’s PhD _s_.”

“Paul, I already know you’re a very smart man,” Hugh replied, mild and very amused, “You don’t need to keep shoving it in my face.”

“Doctorates are not a measure of maturity, yes, _believe me,_ I know.”

Hugh hummed agreement under his breath. Paul picked at the invisible lint.

“Hey, wait a second,” Hugh said suddenly, “If you got your PhD when you were _nineteen_ , then… How old were you when you started at Starfleet?”

“Old enough,” Paul muttered, ignoring the invisible lint and drumming his fingers on the bedspread instead.

“Uh huh,” Hugh replied, “My mom almost lost my mind when I joined up,” he laughed, “She thought I was going to get shipped out to Takara or something and she’d never see me again.”

“Sounds like someone has attachment issues.”

“Oh, well--it’s just the two of us. My dad left when I was a kid, so my mom and I are pretty close.”

“Oh,” Paul said.

A beat.

“What about _your_ family?” Hugh asked with exaggerated emphasis.

“I have a brother,” Paul replied.

“Really? What’s the age difference?”

Paul steeled himself.

“Twenty-six minutes,” he replied.

“A _twin_ brother? Well, this completely changes my perception of your lonely, isolated childhood.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Paul said drily, “We’re very different and not that close.”

“I’m guessing he’s not as fun a guy as you are.”

“Fuck you,” Paul sighed.

Hugh laughed.

“Really, though,” he said, “What does he do? Not alien space mushrooms?”

“I’m sure he’s done _plenty_ of mushrooms,” Paul said sourly. At Hugh’s snort, he sighed and elaborated, “He dropped out of NYU to become a filmmaker.”

“I’m so glad one of you turned out normal.”

“Thanks,” Paul snorted.

“I’m sure your parents must have loved it.”

“Yeah,” Paul said, “I don’t know if they ever forgave him for all that.”

“Probably. They’re your parents.”

Paul swallowed bitter words and rolled restively onto his back, ignoring the pointed emptiness of his room, the absence of chatter from the kitchen, the stony silence of his PADD.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, “Are you alone right now?”

“No, I’m with two Andorian go-go boys. Cafes in the capital are pretty ideal cruising spots.”

Paul pushed himself upright, communicator in hand, and thumped down into his desk chair.

“I’m calling your video line right now, so you can tell them to get the fuck out of your bed.”

“Our first video call,” Hugh said musingly, a brief scuffle scratching its way through the line as he moved, presumably to his desk, “What’s the occasion?”

“I like to keep an eye on things,” Paul replied, restlessly waiting for the call to connect.

“Mmm-hmm,” Hugh hummed, just as his face winked into existence on Paul’s tri-level display. He grinned. “Hey,” he said.

Paul smiled cautiously back.

“Hey,” he replied.

“You’re looking goo--oh my god, is that the same sweater?”

Paul looked down at himself.

“Uh,” he said, looking back up at Hugh, “Yeah.”

“Talk about attachment issues.”

“It’s a nice sweater,” Paul said defensively.

“It’s so 20th century boho.”

“You wrote your number on a _coffee cup_.”

Hugh shrugged, eyes crinkled at the corners.

“True,” he said, “But still. That sweater.”

“It’s not mine,” Paul said, the words spilling from his mouth before he quite knew what to do with them, “It’s my brother’s, I think. We had matching ones, but he always used to take mine, and now I can’t keep it straight.”

“Matching sweaters? That’s cute.”

“Yeah, that’s what our mom thought.”

Hugh smiled.

“I like her already.”

“She died,” Paul said flatly, “Last week.”

It was only a short, bewildered silence that followed.

“Oh, Paul,” Hugh said quietly, eyes large, earnest, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Paul replied. He looked down again at his sweater, at the worn, fuzzy stripe of faded blue that ran across his chest. “Me too." He felt tears gather again, well up in the pounding confusion of silence, and sat back in his chair, eyes fixed on his restlessly drumming fingers. “She’s been sick for a while,” he explained--to Hugh or himself, he didn’t know, “A couple years.”

“That must have been hard.”

Paul shrugged.

“I wouldn’t know,” he replied.

He forced himself to look back up at the screen, to swallow tears and a terrifying, penetrating depth of emotion. Hugh watched him with an unnamable expression, full of wordless understanding.

“Since we’re on the road to full disclosure,” Paul said hoarsely, “I’ll also let you know that I ditched her funeral.” He barked a short, bitter laugh. “Made it to the synagogue, couldn’t make it to the cemetery.” He paused. “Jewish,” he added, “Very Jewish. Them. My dad. Not me.”

Hugh said nothing.

“We were close,” Paul said. He glanced away again, restless in alien territory. “Used to be, at least.”

“Yeah,” Hugh murmured. A pained smile flickered across his face. “You’ve been going through a lot.” He cocked his head. “No wonder you’re such a pain in the ass.”

Paul huffed quietly, flushed.

“So what about you?” he demanded after a moment, rough and a little ragged, “What shameful secrets do you have buried deep in your sordid past?”

Hugh laughed and leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head. He tilted his head back in playful thought.

“I picked up a guy in a cafe once,” he said, smirking at the camera, “Took him up to my room after no more than ten minutes of conversation. He was a _real_ pain in the ass, if you get what I mean.”

“Fuck you,” Paul muttered. He folded his arms and sat back in his seat, glaring irritably.

Hugh laughed and spun lazily around in his chair.

“I’m glad you told me, though. About your mom. Really, Paul,” Hugh said easily as Paul opened his mouth, sharp retort on his tongue, “I appreciate it.”

Paul shrugged, flushed and uncomfortable again.

Hugh snorted ungracefully.

“ _What?_ ” Paul snapped, fingers twitching.

“You’re just really cute,” Hugh replied, frank and sincere, "And a lot of other things that I don't know, but--I want to."

Paul picked wordlessly at the edge of his desk with anxious fingers, brow furrowed.

“And I think that might be a problem,” Hugh continued. Paul glanced at him nervously. “Because I’m here,” Hugh said, “And you’re all the way over there.”

An expectant silence settled, ballooned with timid hope.

“I guess it’s going to be a long year then,” Paul said finally, cautiously.

“Yeah?” Hugh said, face-splitting grin launching itself from ear to ear.

Paul scowled.

“It’s not like I have anything better to do with my time,” he replied scathingly.

“Uh huh,” Hugh managed around his grin.

“Stop _smiling_ ,” Paul snarled, “I’m not _marrying_ you.”

Hugh’s grin broadened.

“You are _such_ a shitty liar,” he said.

* * *

 ONE MONTH

“What’s for dinner?” Hugh called from the computer display.

“What?” Paul yelled from the bathroom.

“Dinner!” Hugh shouted, rolling his eyes, “What for you eat!?”

A smile crept onto Paul’s face as he bent and vigorously toweled at his hair.

“I don’t know!” Paul replied, managing to work some irritation into his voice, “Why?” He tossed his towel lazily onto the rack and slouched back out into the main room, blindly feeling his way across to his desk, where he had left his glasses.

“What do you mean ‘you don’t know’?” Hugh asked, eyebrows raised.

Paul shoved his glasses back onto his face and shrugged, bending in the next jerky movement to scratch at an itch on his heel.

“Are you going to the canteen?” Hugh continued.

Paul popped back up into an upright position and pulled a face.

Hugh sighed.

“You should learn how to cook,” he said.

“Well,” Paul said snippily, “I’m just waiting for _you_ to teach me.”

“Why am I the responsible one in this relationship?” Hugh said to no one in particular. He sighed again and waved an absent hand. “Put me on your PADD and show me your kitchen.”

“I was _joking_ , Hugh,” Paul said, scandalized.

“Well, I’m not,” Hugh replied, mild and amused. He waved his hand again. “Me. PADD. Kitchen.”

“What about me makes you lose the inability to form coherent sentences?”

“I don’t know,” Hugh said drily, “Maybe it’s your complete inability to function like a competent human adult.”

Paul scowled.

“I’m not asking you to teach me how to _cook_.”

“I know, but I’m doing it anyways.” Hugh held up a hand. “I’m the best long-distance boyfriend ever, I know, I know. PADD. Now.”

Paul rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically, flicking his hand to send the video feed to his PADD, which he picked up and carried across the room to the kitchen. He haphazardly propped it up against one of Straal’s tea dispensers and bent so his face was back in frame.

“This is the kitchen,” he said irritably. He waved an arm behind him. “Stove, oven.” He shifted waved his other hand. “Fridge. Microwave.”

“Not bad for a junior officer,” Hugh replied appraisingly.

Paul shrugged, still awkwardly hunched before the camera.

“Straal has some crazy diet restrictions, and we’re both the same breed of Starfleet pariah, so they stuck us in one of the old rooms that didn’t make the last renovation.”

“That actually makes a lot of sense,” Hugh replied wryly. He jerked his chin. “What’s in the fridge?”

“Food,” Paul replied. After a moment of contemplation, he added, “Probably.”

Hugh sighed.

“Open it, please,” he said, “And let me see.”

Paul made another face but snatched up the PADD again and yanked open the fridge door.

“It’s all Straal’s stuff,” he said, peering inside, “Weird vegetables. Oh look--” he reached in and withdrew some cloudy vials, “--some samples.”

“We’re putting those _back_ ,” Hugh said firmly, “As desperate as you are, I hope you’ve never had to stoop _that_ low.”

Paul wiggled his eyebrows at the camera, grinning when Hugh scowled his increasingly familiar You-Are-Impossible scowl.

“Put them _back_ ,” Hugh repeated.

Paul sighed dramatically again and stuffed the samples back into the fridge, critically eyeing the rest of its contents.

“Nothing,” he proclaimed triumphantly.

“Yeah,” Hugh said, suddenly cheerful, “You know what you get to do now?”

Paul let the fridge door shut behind him and turned back to his PADD.

“Something I don’t like?” he replied.

“Yeah,” Hugh repeated.

“What?” Paul snapped.

“You’re going shopping,” Hugh said.

“ _What._ ”

“Shopping,” Hugh repeated, “You know, for food?”

“Bullshit.”

Hugh’s eyebrows flew up his forehead. Paul winced.

“Does that really not--” he began, then stopped, refusing to complete a sentence regarding the terminal velocity of his long-distance boyfriend’s admirably arched eyebrows.

“What?” Hugh asked, confused.

“Nothing,” Paul replied. Hugh’s eyebrows crept higher. Paul sighed. “You just--” he began, jabbing a finger at his PADD, “--You might want to keep an eye on those. They might fly off your face one day.”

Hugh shot him a look of long-suffering patience.

“Am I sensing some eyebrow envy here?” he said.

“I think you need to read up on your Freud, Doctor,” Paul shot back, “Work on your anatomy a bit.”

Hugh’s eyebrows flew up again.

“Well, I’m flattered,” he said.

Paul rolled his eyes.

“So,” Hugh said with the single-minded firmness of one refusing to be swayed, “Grocery shopping.”

Paul groaned.

* * *

Straal stumbled into their little studio apartment that night and stopped dead in the doorway, bleary eyes wide, nose twitching.

“I have a PhD in biophysics,” Paul said, voice bleeding irritation, “I _know_ I have to defrost the chicken before I cook it.”

Straal took another step into the apartment, allowing the door to close behind him.

“I’m just making sure,” an unfamiliar voice, full of amusement, replied, “You’re the one who just tried to boil a whole onion--”

“-- _Hey_ \--”

“--without peeling it first.”

Paul sighed.

Straal took another step forward and poked his head into the kitchen.

“Are you--” he broke off abruptly, eyes widening further at the biodegradable detritus strewn across the counter, “-- _cooking?_ ” he choked.

Paul whirled sharply, ladle in hand.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped.

Straal blinked.

“I… live here?” he said.

Paul frowned ferociously.

“Didn’t you say you’d be at the lab tonight?”

Straal checked his communicator.

“It’s past midnight,” he replied.

Paul spun around again, and Straal finally realized he had suspended his PADD from the range hood via a decidedly dodgy arrangement of commercial-grade electromagnets.

“Don’t you need to go to work?” Paul said into his PADD, “What time is it over there?”

“Hi!” shouted the voice from the PADD, ignoring Paul entirely, “I’m Hugh!”

Straal stepped cautiously into the kitchen.

“Hi,” he said warily, peering over Paul’s shoulder at the man on the screen, “I’m Straal. Paul’s slave. Roommate. Same thing.”

“It’s great to finally meet you,” Hugh said, grinning an impossibly broad grin, “Paul--”

Paul smacked a finger down on the mute button, cutting him off. He turned to Straal, eyes narrowed.

“Uh huh,” Straal muttered, spinning sloppily on his heel, “I’m going to sleep. Please clean up all your--” he waved a weary hand at the mess of their kitchen counter, “--stuff when you’re done. You know half the stuff you’ve got out here can kill me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Paul mumbled, frantically engaged in a one-sided, non-verbal conversation with Hugh, who waved cheerily again at Straal, apparently not displeased in the slightest he had been forcibly muted.

“Nice to meet you, uh--” Straal fumbled, exhausted prefrontal lobe misfiring and coming up short.

“-- _Hugh_ ,” Paul snarled, glaring up at him sharply.

“Hugh,” Straal parroted dumbly, “Hugh, yeah. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, just go to sleep,” Paul sighed, spinning him around and pushing him back out into the hall, “I’ll wake you up tomorrow.”

Straal held up a finger.

“Today,” he said, “It’s past midnight.”

“Whatever.”

“Good luck, Hugh!” Straal called over his shoulder, “You’re gonna need it!”

 _“Go to sleep, Straal!_ ”

Straal smiled to himself and pitched face-first into bed.

* * *

“So, how’d you two meet?” Straal asked casually the next morning on their daily forced march across campus to the lab.

“Who?” Paul said quickly, nose buried in his PADD.

Straal looked down at him, at the red ears, the flushed neck, the white-knuckled grip, and snorted.

“Never mind,” he replied.


	8. Chapter 8

FOUR MONTHS

“You can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, you know?”

“What,” Paul retorted hotly, “Just because I don’t want some random--”

“--they’re not _random_ people, Paul. They’re my _friends_.”

“I don’t like people I don’t know.”

“Let me repeat: They’re my _friends_.”

Paul blinked at the glowing display.

_“So?”_

On-screen, Hugh glanced down briefly at his folded hands and took a quick, deep breath. He looked back up into his camera.

“They’re my friends, so I care about them,” he said, “I talk about everything with them. Because we love each other, and we trust each other with everything. That’s why I want to tell them about you.” Hugh scraped a hand across his chin in a vague gesture of frustration. “You’re becoming a big part of my life, Paul,” he said, “And I love that too much to keep it to myself.”

Paul fidgeted in his seat.

“And it’s not like I’m asking you to be _friends_ with them,” Hugh continued wryly, “God knows how well that’s going to go. I just want to share a little bit of us--” he gestured at Paul through the vast emptiness of distant space, “--with them--” he jabbed a finger over his shoulder at the closed door behind him. After a moment, he shrugged and added loftily, “I think it would be selfish of us not to do so.”

Paul’s fingers twitched on the surface of his desk, and unconsciously, he gnawed at the inside of his lip, worrying away at nebulous uncertainty.

Hugh paused, smiled fading.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

“Nothing,” Paul replied, forcing a quick smile onto his face, “If that’s what you want, then I'm fine with it."

Hugh stared at him a moment before sitting back slowly in his chair.

"Paul," he said tightly, "That's not how this works."

"What are you talking about?" Paul demanded.

"You can't just--" Hugh waved a hand, "-- _Give in_ to something just because I want it."

"What if I want it too?” Paul snapped, “It’s not always just about you.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Hugh replied, “But that’s how it’s been so far.” He gestured with both hands open, palms up, “ _Tell me what you want_ , Paul. That’s the only way this is gonna work.”

“Wha--”

“--If you don’t want me talking about us to my friends, for fuck’s sake, _tell me_ ,” Hugh demanded, “Don’t just sit there and look fucking miserable when you tell me that it’s okay. _Tell me_ you’re not okay with it, and tell me _why_. I’m not gonna take your fucking head off for disagreeing with me!”

“Well, you’re doing a really _fucking_ great job there,” Paul hissed, hurt and flushed.

Hugh ducked his head, hands clenched behind elbows braced on his desk. He blew out a breath and looked back up at the camera.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

“I don’t like people,” Paul muttered, leg bouncing a double-time rhythm beneath his desk, eyes fixed on the backs of his pale hands, “People don’t like me. It’s all the same thing.”

“But I like you,” Hugh said, “I think that counts for something, right?”

“ _Exactly,_ ” Paul parroted, levelling his searing gaze at the camera. He sat forward, agitated. “How the fuck is this supposed to work?” he demanded, gesticulating fiercely, “This--this-- _whatever_ it is between us. Tell me how this is supposed to work because _I don’t know_.”

Hugh cocked his head slightly, eyes dark and bright.

“We’ll figure it out,” he replied, “Right now. Let’s talk.”

Paul blinked furiously down at his desk.

“Fine,” he snapped, “You first.”

Hugh almost smiled.

“I think you’re the most brilliant, beautiful, generous man I’ve ever met,” he said sincerely, “That being said,” he continued, “You’re also a huge pain in the ass when it comes to the little things--like having normal, civil conversation that doesn’t require me to consult my inner psychopath to figure out what you’re actually feeling when you tell me to fuck off.” He scooted his chair closer and aborted a half-realized movement to raise his hand, as if to reach through the infinities between them. “I think I’d like to start there.”

“Civil conversation, huh?” Paul said around the tightness in his throat.

Hugh winced slightly.

“Not your strong suit, honey,” he replied. After a moment, he raised his eyebrows. “Your turn,” he prompted.

“What is this, a fucking AA meeting?” Paul snapped.

“Relationship,” Hugh replied, “Conversation. Civil. Conversation.”

Paul’s glared intensified, but he snapped his mouth shut and sat in mulish contemplation.

“This is uncomfortable,” he said stiffly after a long silence.

“Throw those emotions at me, baby,” Hugh replied, grinning, “Prove to me you’re not just the universe’s bitchiest Vulcan. I can take it.”

Paul scowled.

“What--”

“--Speak. Now. Stop stalling.”

“I don’t like people,” Paul blurted.

“Really, honey?” Hugh said drily, “Thanks for letting me kno--”

“--but I like you.” Paul glared at his desk as he spoke, quickly, furiously. “I like the way you’re smart and funny and don’t get insulted when I tell you to fuck off because I don’t know what else to say. I like the way you make me laugh. I like the way you-- _we_ \--talk and how--” he fumbled, “--how patient you are with me because I don’t think like other people, and sometimes I think I should just program myself into the universal translator so that everyone else can just _understand_ me.” He looked up at Hugh, blinking fiercely. “But you understand me. Somehow.”

Hugh smiled crookedly, something fragile and hopeful lurking behind the trembling light in his eyes.

“Oh, Paul,” he murmured.

“Don’t--” Paul muttered, looking away, “Don’t--don’t don’t _do_ that.”

“What?” Hugh replied, smile broadening.

“ _That_.”

“Shitty liar.”

Paul glared at him, struggling to find words. Failing, he dropped his head.

“Civil conversation,” he said to his feet.

“Too much?” Hugh replied.

Paul squinted up at him, fidgeting with a loose thread hanging from his sleeve.

“A little,” he said.

“Slower,” Hugh said, “I can do that.”

Paul smiled faintly.

“Me too,” he replied.

"We?" 

"I guess."

 


	9. Chapter 9

NOW 

Hugh set down his PADD with a sharp clack.

“He wants you to _what?”_

Paul held out both hands placatingly.

“Hugh--”

“--No,” Hugh snapped, standing abruptly, “This has gone _way_ too far.”

A junior nurse scurried between them with a murmured apology.

“It’s the only way we can save Pahvo,” Paul returned, gesturing fiercely, “It’s the only way _any_ of us will make it out of here alive.”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Hugh hissed, rounding on him with ferocious intensity, “There’s always another way.” He searched Paul’s face. “What did he offer you, hm? What did he promise this time?”

“Nothing,” Paul insisted, stepping back, “Why would he have to offer me anything for me to do my duty?”

“Your _duty?”_ Hugh snarled, grabbing Paul’s shoulder and turning him back around, “You’re a _scientist_ , Paul. You’ve said it yourself. It’s not your _duty_ to _fry your brain._ ”

“Then whose is it?” Paul demanded heatedly, “Because I don’t see anyone else stepping up.”

“Just because you’re the only one capable doesn’t mean you’re the only one who should!”

“God _damn_ it, Hugh!” Paul shouted, pounding his fist into the biobed, “What the _fuck_ do you want me to do? I refuse--Pahvo is destroyed. An entire civilization. Gone. I accept--” he jabbed a finger into Hugh’s chest, “--and _you_ get to deal with the fallout.” He stepped back, arms thrown out in challenge. “But I’m just one guy, Hugh. Who else in the fucking universe would care if I died?”

“That’s not what this is about,” Hugh spat, voice rising, “That is not _at all_ what this is about. It’s not about me. It’s not about you. It’s not about Pahvo, the Klingons, the _captain_. That's not the point!”

“Then tell me--” Paul snapped, “-- _what is?_ ”

Hugh searched Paul’s face, searched the unfamiliar lines of tension, of gnawing ambition and depthless despair.

“It’s about _us_ ,” Hugh replied, voice breaking, “It’s always been _us_. _Together_. Not because of me. Not because of you. Not because of this war or anything else that’s been thrown at us. And we haven’t--” he swallowed convulsively, “--we haven’t gone wrong yet with us.”

Paul looked away, hands tight across his chest, so shuttered, so distant.

“This is far bigger than you could ever imagine, Hugh,” he said after a long silence, “Far bigger than our galaxy. Our universe, even.” He met Hugh’s eyes again. “And definitely bigger than just the two of us.”

Hugh sat on the edge of the biobed.

“I know,” he murmured. Thickly, he added, “But that doesn’t mean I can’t _try_.”

Paul shifted stiffly, eyes fixed on the unadorned wall behind the biobed.

“But I can’t,” Hugh said. He looked up at Paul helplessly. “I can’t help you.”

Paul swallowed, throat tight.

“I never asked you to,” he said.

“I know,” Hugh replied quietly, “You never had to.”


	10. Chapter 10

SIX MONTHS

“--and then I told him I was seeing somebody,” Hugh said, eyes dancing.

“Yeah?” Paul shifted in his seat, edging closer to the screen.

“And the look on his face!” Hugh snorted, “I seriously thought for a moment there that he’d had a stroke or something.”

“Well, that would be your area of expertise,” Paul replied drily, eyes crinkled at the corners.

A rattle sounded from the door. Paul whipped his head around with a frown, startled.

“Hey,” Straal called from the front entryway, “Guess who forgot today’s lecture was cancelled?”

“I’ll call you back,” Paul whispered hastily into the camera.

“I’m fine with it,” Hugh said, head cocked, “If you are.”

Paul hesitated, and in that moment, Straal ambled into the studio, tunic unzipped, boots in hand.

“Want to come with me to--” he paused at the blank look of indecisive terror on Paul’s face and frowned. “What?”

“Ah,” Paul said.

“Hi, Straal!” Hugh called from the screen, waving.

“Uh,” Straal said, approaching Paul’s desk with a small wave of his own, “Hey.” He glanced at Paul, who remained frozen in his seat. “Paul, uh. You okay?”

“We’re dating,” Hugh said loudly.

Straal stopped short, looking from Paul to Hugh, to Paul, to Hugh.

“What a surprise,” he said flatly, “I never would have guessed.”

Paul flushed, ears aflame.

“Shut up,” he snapped.

“Did I say anything?” Straal said, lining his boots up neatly in his closet, “No, I did not.”

Hugh laughed. Paul swore under his breath.

“Just so you know,” Hugh said, “Paul says you’re his only friend.”

“ _Hugh,_ ” Paul snapped, mortified.

Straal shrugged, thoroughly amused, and perched on the bed behind Paul.

“If you don’t count all of our mycelial offspring, that’s probably true,” he said.

“I knew it,” Paul muttered sourly, “I _knew_ this would happen.”

Hugh laughed again, and Straal grinned in response, cuffing Paul lightly on the shoulder.

“Who would’ve known, hm?” he asked, “Paul Stamets _does_ have a heart.”

“Fuck off.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Straal replied. He turned back to the camera. “Where’re you stationed, Hugh?”

“Alpha Centauri,” Hugh replied, “I’m finishing up my medical internship at the university hospital.”

“Ah,” Straal winced, “How’s that going?”

“Could be worse,” Hugh replied, “Some people here are just a little--” he glanced at Paul “--insistent.”

“I’m sure Paul will murder them all for you,” Straal said sweetly. He stood and stretched. Paul shot him a look. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll leave you two to it,” he muttered, “I’ve known you for how long now?” He waved again at the screen. “Congrats, and good luck.”

Hugh smiled.

“Thanks,” he replied.

“Oh, and just so you know,” Straal added cheerfully, looking Hugh in the eye, “Screw with him and you die.”

“ _Out_ ,” Paul snapped.

Straal laughed and padded for the door, snatching up his trainers as he went.

“Later, lover-boy!” he called as the door slid shut.

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose, aggrieved.

“Well, that went well,” Hugh said.

“Fuck me,” Paul replied.

Hugh smiled.

* * *

 

EIGHT MONTHS

“So I did some digging,” Hugh said, sprawled across his back, the collar of his non-regulation nightshirt distractingly undone.

“Mmm?” Paul hummed absently.

“And I found out you’ve been keeping a secret from me.”

Paul blinked, twitching back to the present.

“A secret?” he parroted.

“Yes, darling,” Hugh sighed, “A secret.”

“What secret?” Paul demanded.

“Take a wild guess,” Hugh replied, unreadable.

“Nice try,” Paul shot back.

Hugh cracked a brief smile before settling back into his neutral posturing.

“I’ll give you a hint,” he continued.

“ _Please_ ,” Paul muttered.

“What’s today’s date?”

Paul made a face and replied irritably, “I don’t know. What kind of question is that?”

From the kitchen, Straal called, “He _does_ know. He’s just being difficult!”

Paul glared down the hall.

“Asshole!” he shouted.

“You’re welcome!” Straal replied.

Paul turned back to the display, chin propped up in his hand, half a day’s scruff scratching at his palm. Hugh raised his eyebrows expectantly. Paul sighed in defeat.

“Yes, it’s my birthday,” he muttered, “I am an arbitrary unit of time older than I was yesterday.”

“And you didn’t tell me,” Hugh said, shaking his head as a familiar grin spread across his face.

“Well, neither did you,” Paul retorted. He dropped his hand in indignation.

“Honey,” Hugh said, still shaking his head, “You don’t even know when my birthday is.”

“Yes, I do,” Paul replied stubbornly.

“Paul--”

“--Happy birthday, Hugh,” Paul said.

Hugh stopped short, lips pressed together in a curiously twisted fashion. A rare full smile crept onto Paul’s face and eased aside the familiar, angular lines of impatient tension.

“How did you find out?” Hugh asked, a small, almost shy smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Paul shrugged.

“Magic,” he replied around a massive grin.

“He bribed his ex in Medical!” Straal shouted from the kitchen.

“ _Shut the fuck up, Straal!_ ”

“She’s my _cousin_ , you moron!”

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose.

Hugh laughed in his face.

* * *

 

TEN MONTHS

“This?” Hugh said, hands on his hips, peering into the camera.

“I think that’s cute,” Paul replied, chin in his hand.

“You said that about the last one.”

“Hugh,” Paul sighed, pulling off his glasses to scrub at the lenses, “I really don’t think I’m the best person to be asking about this.”

“Who _else_ am I supposed to ask?” Hugh demanded, sounding vaguely hysterical, “I’m alone on an alien planet!”

“Maybe try try that friendly--who was it? Andorrian? The one who keeps hitting on you?”

Hugh made a face.

“Or someone with something vaguely resembling fashion sense?” Paul offered, settling his glasses back onto his nose, “I’d wear the same sweater every day if I could get away with it, and you know it.”

Hugh rolled his eyes.

“You’re not helping!” he said, stripping off his vintage tie and slumping onto the edge of his bed in dramatic defeat.

“It’s just a party,” Paul said, chin wriggling back into his hand, curling in on himself, “Why do you even have to go?”

Hugh raised his eyebrows pointedly.

“Why do you _want_ to go?” Paul amended, peeved.

“Because these people are my friends and coworkers, and I enjoy spending time with them.”

“But you have to dress up,” Paul pointed out, “Isn’t that a little excessive?”

Hugh sighed.

“You _want_ to dress up?” Paul said in disbelief, “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“I like to look good, Paul,” Hugh replied drily, “It pains me to think that your first memory of me involves my ex-roommate’s giant poncho.”

“If it helps,” Paul replied, eyebrows raised, “All I really remember is the rain. And being wet.”

“ _Thanks._ ”

Paul smirked, tucking his chin into the crook of his elbow. In truth, there was very little he could forget about that night.

Hugh shot him a look and levered himself back to his feet.

“What’s my color?” he asked.

“Color?” Paul echoed.

Hugh rolled his eyes.

“What color do you think looks the best on me?”

“Purple,” Paul replied around a yawn, “Like those pants. With the pink shirt.”

“Which pink shirt?” Hugh asked, picking his way through the shirts he had neatly spread out across his bed.

“The pale one,” Paul said, “No, not that--yeah--no, the _other_ \--yeah, that one.”

He watched in appreciative silence as Hugh changed shirts for quite possibly the hundredth time over the course their current conversation.

“What do you think?” Hugh asked, turning back to the camera and smoothing down his shirtfront expectantly.

“Good,” Paul replied.

“Really?” Hugh replied, eyeing himself critically in his computer display.

“Hugh, you could wear a fucking sewage pipe, and I’d still think you looked good.”

Hugh grinned.

“Really?” he repeated.

“ _No_ ,” Paul snapped, flopping over on the table, “You’d look hideous. When would you ever be in a situation that called for a sewage pipe to be substituted for an article of clothing?”

Hugh shrugged and smirked.

“I can think of a few reasons.”

It was Paul’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Yes,” he muttered into the crook of his arm, “Good luck with that.”

“I don’t need luck, darling,” Hugh replied, neatly hanging his remaining shirts back up in the closet, “I have you.”

Paul snorted loudly.

“That was _awful_ ,” he moaned, rolling onto his side, hands pressed to his face.

“And that’s why you love me,” Hugh replied primly, carefully shutting his closet door and turning back to face his computer.

“Ugh,” Paul mumbled, peering at him from between stiff fingers.

Hugh smiled and bent back over his desk, face close to the camera.

“I love you, darling,” he said, sing-song.

“Get away from me,” Paul spat, still cringing.

Hugh laughed softly, thumping back into his chair. After a moment, the silence returned, and Paul peeped out from behind a hand.

“I wish you could come with me tonight,” Hugh said quietly.

“No you don’t,” Paul muttered, sprawled full-out across his desk, “I don’t like parties--”

“--and parties don’t like you, mm-hmm.”

Paul sighed.

“It’s not fair when you do that, you know,” he muttered sourly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hugh replied.

Paul pursed his lips and blinked slowly, bobbing in the hazy silence.

“Tell me how it goes?” he sighed.

“You know I will.”

Paul sat up slowly, hair mussed, glasses askew. Hugh smiled fondly.

“Go to sleep,” he said, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Paul squinted at his communicator.

“Tonight for me, I guess,” he muttered.

“You should stop ignoring my medical advice about the hazards of all-nighters.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Paul said, sing-song.

Hugh sighed.

“I should probably get going,” he said, glancing up at the timestrip on his wall, “I’m running late.”

“Yeah,” Paul replied. He flapped a hand. “Go have fun. Tell me about it later so I can insult you.”

“Yes, darling.”

“Hmph.”

“I love you.”

Paul sighed, quiet and suddenly empty again.

“I love you too,” he replied.

* * *

 

ELEVEN MONTHS

“--so my mom got out her big-ass broom and busted out the door like some crazy Bajorian rastipod and went after this tiny little opossum, you know--screaming at it in Spanish, at the top of her tiny little lungs--out into the street while I’m sitting here laughing my ass off because she left the camera on, and I can hear her screaming at it, swearing at it, and through the window, I just see the tip of her broom as she tries to--I don’t know, _sweep_ it away, I guess, up the tree, and then I hear all our neighbors start to shout at her, you know--giving advice, telling her to shut up and then--”

“--Hugh--”

“--I hear this giant crash that I think was my old bike--

“--Hugh--”

“--I guess she must have knocked it over or something--”

“--Hugh--”

“--and then I see the opossum just _zoom_ past the camera into the house because she left the door open--”

“-- _Hugh--”_

“--and then she--”

“-- _Hugh, I’m going to be off-world for a few weeks._ ”

Hugh froze, mouth half-open, eyes wide. Paul fidgeted.

“I’m going to be on limited subspace for a while,” he elaborated. Wryly, he added, “More fieldwork.”

“Where?” Hugh demanded.

“Mantilles.”

“ _Mantilles?_ ”Hugh snapped, “That’s not even in Federation space!”

“Exactly,” Paul replied, bewildered by the sudden responsibility of playing calm, cool, and collected, “There’s a lot of stuff out there we haven’t seen--or tested--yet. There’ve been reports of a fungus with triploid generations that--”

“--why do you have to go?” Hugh cut in, “Don’t you have someone more junior you can send?”

“None who actually know what they’re doing,” Paul snorted. At Hugh’s skeptical alarm, he sighed and added, “I scored the highest in our most recent mandatory firearms qualifications.”

“Yeah,” Hugh retorted, “That really makes me feel a lot better.”

Paul picked irritably at his sleeve.

“What do you want me to say?” he demanded, “I’m the most qualified in my unit. I’m going.”

“Alone?”

“Are you fucking insane?” Paul muttered, throwing himself back into his chair, “Of course I’m not going alone. We’re bringing some sort of expeditionary force--a full security detachment, some brass, and some idiot science officers.”

“Is Straal going with you?”

“He’s not my _babysitter_ ,” Paul snapped. He clenched his jaw, obviously reining in his temper before continuing, “No, Straal won’t be coming with me. The man is allergic to _dust_. What do you think an alien planet would do to him?”

Hugh scrubbed a hand through the thick scruff on his chin.

“Mantilles is pretty far,” he said.

“No shit.”

Hugh opened his mouth, eyes flashing, then stopped short.

“How long until you leave?” he asked instead.

“Three days at most,” Paul replied, “It took a long fucking time for this to get approved, and the seasons change quickly on Mantilles.”

Hugh dropped his chin slightly.

“When will you be back?”

“Three weeks.” Paul glanced up at the camera uncertainly, “I should be back before you.”

“You better be,” Hugh said thickly, “I’ve been waiting a long time.”

“Any chance I get a signal, I’ll call,” Paul promised.

“I know,” Hugh replied.

“I _will_.”

Hugh smiled faintly.

“I know,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: A reunion.


	11. Chapter 11

ONE YEAR

Paul shifted impatiently, hands clasped tightly behind his back as passengers flowed from the spaceport, loud chatter, quiet conversations, bright faces, blank faces whirling around him in the mad dance of throbbing life. He glanced up at the arrival board for the second time in as many minutes and tugged at the collar of his tunic with a clammy hand. Impatiently, he scanned the sea for a familiar face.

After an interminable period of shifting and tugging, his communicator chirped.

Paul snatched it up violently, smashing it into his ear.

“Hugh?” he rasped.

“Hey,” Hugh replied, smile obvious in his voice, “I’m right outside the double doors next to that awful knockoff hot dog stand.”

Paul’s mouth twitched faintly, and he whirled, making out the ghastly red-and-white-striped canopy of the hot dog stand and pushing his way towards it.

“I’m walking to you right now,” he said.

“You better hurry up, or I might actually buy one of these things,” Hugh snorted, voice crackling over the hubub, “I’m starving.”

Paul laughed, pushing his way past a tall, morose Vulcan in traditional dress into the the small breathing space around the hot dog stand. He snapped his communicator shut.

“Hey,” he said, grinning like an idiot.

Hugh jammed his communicator into the pocket of his civvies.

“‘Hey?’” he replied, laughing, “One year, and all I get is _‘hey’?_ ”

He took two steps forward and wrapped his arms around Paul, hugging him with fierce strength. Paul fisted his hands in the back of Hugh’s shirt and pressed his face into the crook of his neck.

“I’m sick,” he murmured into Hugh’s ear after a moment, “So you might want to--”

“--Do you _really_ think I care?”

Paul muffled his laugh in Hugh’s shoulder, chest unbearably tight. He pulled away, certain his face was roughly the color of the Golden Gate Bridge. Hugh maintained his hold on Paul’s waist and pressed their foreheads together, eyes fixed on his.

“I missed you,” he murmured.

Paul sniffled quietly.

“I missed you too,” he replied.

Hugh cocked his head, smiling so broadly Paul thought his joy would swallow him whole, After a long moment, he wriggled out of Hugh’s suffocating grip and lunged for his bag.

“Hey,” Hugh laughed, reeling him back in, “I can get that.”

Paul turned away and sneezed enormously.

“Beautiful,” Hugh said, snatching his bag out of Paul’s hand and eyeing him appraisingly, “You seen anyone about that yet?”

Paul smirked.

“I am now,” he replied.

“I’m here to love you,” Hugh snorted, taking his hand and guiding him through the crowd, “Not test your snot for alien pathogens so you don’t have to deal with protocol.”

Paul sighed dramatically. Hugh glanced back at him over his shoulder and smiled despite himself, warmth and contentment shining from his eyes.

They made their way through the seething mass of humanity onto a waiting transport shuttle that would take them across the city to the academy. Inside, Hugh slung his bag across one broad shoulder, hand still gripped tightly around Paul’s, and grinned, looking him up and down in the sudden quiet of their cramped carriage.

“You look good,” he said.

Paul flushed deeper still.

“You too,” he replied quietly.

“Nice sweater.”

Paul turned away and sneezed again, the sound echoing painfully through the vacant emptiness of his skull. Hugh squeezed his hand. Several passengers eyed them warily and edged away.

“Oh, honey,” Hugh said sympathetically, “You should have stayed in bed.”

“Straal kicked me out,” Paul muttered, sniffling irritably, “But I’m also banned from the lab. What else was I supposed to do?”

“And I love you too,” Hugh replied, pecking him quickly on the cheek.

Paul struggled and failed to swallow the smile that fixed itself onto his face.

“You said you were hungry,” he said instead, touching his shoulder to Hugh’s, “Want to go downtown and grab something?”

Hugh eyed him critically.

“I think you need to be in bed,” he said, hand drifting dangerously close to his tricorder.

“Was that an invitation?” Paul shot back.

“Let’s order delivery,” Hugh continued, eyebrows raised, “I’ll pick since you’re so congested you probably won’t be able to taste any of it anyways.”

Paul sighed, defeated.

The shuttle eased to its first stop, and some passengers shuffled out, leaving a vacant seat behind Hugh.

“Paul,” he said, tugging him over, “Sit.”

“I’m fine,” Paul muttered peevishly.

Hugh nudged him gently with his hip. Paul staggered as the shuttle picked up speed again and plopped into the empty seat, swearing under his breath. He glared up at Hugh, who smiled and took his hand again, other arm slung casually through the handrail above his head.

The shuttle rumbled quietly away, silent invisible rhythm thrumming around them. Drained from this brief excursion, Paul drifted, lulled into an unfamiliar comfort.

Hugh watched Paul fondly as he swayed slowly, pale lashes fluttering behind thick lenses. Surreptitiously, Hugh shifted closer.

“Sleep,” he said quietly, resting his free hand in Paul’s hair and gently pressing him into his side, “It’s going to be a long ride.”

Paul mumbled under his breath in protest, burrowing nevertheless tighter into Hugh’s stomach. Slowly, Hugh stroked his hair, heart swelling in his chest at this closeness, this nearness.

The shuttle hummed along, smoothly navigating San Francisco’s air traffic, hovering at stop after stop to regurgitate weary passengers until only one stop remained, with the two of them the only passengers in rapidly-deepening twilight. Hugh remained standing in the deserted carriage, hand twined in Paul’s hair as the Pacific Ocean whispered by just beyond the domed windows. He breathed deeply the recycled air and smiled to himself as the shuttle chimed a destination proximity warning.

“Paul,” he said quietly, gently ruffling Paul’s hair, “We’re almost here.”

Paul sat up with a jerk, glasses askew, hair in complete disarray.

“What?” he slurred.

Hugh’s smile softened.

“It’s our stop,” he replied.

“What?” Paul repeated. He squinted up at Hugh, then out the window. “Shit. Did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah,” Hugh said, tugging him to his feet as the shuttle slowed, “I know I’m rapidly approaching the end of young adulthood, but if my stomach is really that comfortable, then I think I have some serious work to do in the gym.”

“Your shoulders are each the size of my fucking head,” Paul muttered, lurching for the open doors on stiff legs, “If you spend any more time at the gym, we’re never going to fit in my bed.”

Hugh snorted, following him out into the crisp evening.

“I’m glad you have your priorities straight,” he replied.

Paul’s retort was interrupted by another tremendous sneeze. Eyes watering, he sighed and stalked across the platform, Hugh keeping pace easily beside him. At the nondescript apartment building just across the street, Paul waved his Starfleet credentials at the access reader and yanked the door open, gesturing Hugh inside.

“Old school,” Hugh said, poking at the lift call button with a finger.

“Yeah,” Paul replied, joining him with a loud, congested sniffle, “No biosign readers here. It’s nice.”

Hugh shook his head in fond exasperation. They waited in expectant silence. Tentatively, Paul brushed the back of Hugh’s hand with his own. Hugh smiled and looked away, allowing Paul to take his time to twine their fingers together. When the lift arrived, they entered together, and Hugh poked the appropriate floor with his elbow.

“I’m impressed,” Paul said, smiling quietly at him.

“Thank you,” Hugh replied tartly, pecking Paul on the lips.

Slightly dazed, Paul laughed in surprise, resting his head on Hugh’s shoulder.

“You know,” Hugh said as they stepped out of the lift together, hands still molded to each other, “I kind of guessed you were a cuddler.”

“Really?” Paul replied in that openly curious voice that Hugh had heard only rarely, “What gave me away?”

Hugh stopped them right outside Paul’s door and cupped Paul’s cheek with one hand, gently tipping his chin back as he had on a storming night just over one year ago.

“Nothing,” he said quietly. Tenderly, he pressed their lips together again, lingering this time, chest-to-chest, heart-to-heart. They pulled apart only slowly. “Just a guess,” he whispered.

Paul smiled, blue eyes clear, sharp.

“Yeah?” he replied softly, “Me too.”

* * *

Hugh looked up from his PADD as the door to Paul’s apartment eased open with a sigh.

Straal flashed him a smile as he entered.

“Hugh,” he said, grinning, “It’s great to—“

Hugh pressed a quick finger to his lips in a universal shushing gesture. With his other hand, he pointed to his lap, which Paul had appropriated as his preferred pillow some time ago.

Straal stifled a laugh and tiptoed over with exaggerated care, PADD extended, camera function enabled.

“Sorry,” Straal whispered, snapping several photos in quick succession, “This is perfect.”

“Send those to me,” Hugh replied in an answering whisper. Carefully, he set his PADD aside and held out a hand. “Nice to finally meet you in person,” he said, “Thanks for letting me stay over.”

Straal tucked his PADD back into his pocket and shook Hugh’s hand, grin broadening.

“Great to meet you too,” he replied, “And—“ he gestured at the room, “—make yourself at home. It’s a little tight, but we make it work.”

At that moment, Paul stirred in Hugh’s lap, grumbling sleepily.

“No, I love it,” Hugh said, instinctively running a hand through Paul’s hair, quieting him instantly, “It’s very—“ he jerked his chin at the mountainous pile of discarded clothing beneath Paul’s desk, “—homey.”

Straal followed his line of sight and grimaced.

“That’s one way to put it,” he muttered.

Hugh laughed quietly. Paul nudged himself deeper into Hugh’s side, legs curled tightly to fit both of them on Paul’s tiny bed. Straal watched them for a moment, eyes dark and bright, hard and soft. Hugh met his gaze evenly, head cocked, a faint quirk to his lips.

Paul sneezed explosively.

Hugh looked down in mild alarm.

“Fuck me,” Paul moaned.

“No thanks,” Straal replied. Hugh snorted.

Paul rolled over out of Hugh’s lap and blinked blearily up at his roommate.

“What,” he said.

“Stay away from me,” Straal replied.

“Huh?”

“Ookay,” Hugh cut in, gently shoving Paul off his legs so he could stand, “It’s time for you to come to Medical. We need to get you checked out.”

Paul squinted up at him from flat on his back.

“Isn’t that _your_ job?” he said accusingly.

“Nice try,” Hugh shot back.

“Ugh.”

Paul curled away from him, groping blindly through the sheets.

“Honey,” Hugh said, taking Paul’s hand in his, “What are you doing?”

“Looking for my glasses,” Paul muttered.

“They’re on your face, darling,” Hugh replied, pushing them back up Paul’s nose. He raised an eyebrow. “Better?”

Paul scowled.

“Come on,” Hugh continued, pulling him to his feet, “I’ll take you down to Medical, and we can at least get you some OTC stuff for that ocean of snot dripping down your throat.”

“ _Hugh_ —“

“--Nope.”

“Hugh, I’ll go tomorrow,” Paul said, slumping back onto the bed, “Promise. I just want to sleep now.”

Hugh pressed his lips together and smoothed a hand through Paul’s hair, leaving it standing in tufts. He smiled faintly at the blank expression on Paul’s face and sighed.

“Promise?” he said.

Paul nodded solemnly. Then turned and sneezed again.

“You two are too much,” Straal moaned.

“Suck it up, Straal,” Paul muttered, falling back onto his bed with a mirrored groan.

Hugh sighed and sat next to Paul, gently tugging off his glasses.

“I’ll leave these on the nightstand, okay?” he said.

Paul mumbled incoherently into his pillow.

Hugh shared a glance with Straal, who smirked and turned away, levering himself back to his feet in one smooth motion.

“Hugh, do you need the bathroom?” he asked, “I’m going to shower.”

“No, I’m good,” Hugh replied, “Thanks.”

He flashed a quick smile and stood, depositing Paul’s glasses neatly on the shared nightstand.

“Paul,” he said quietly into Paul’s ear, “Paul, honey, can you move a little so I can pull the sheets out for you?”

“Mmphgrh,” Paul replied, curling himself up tightly and rolling away in an obliging lump.

Hugh yanked out the rumpled blankets from beneath him and aired them once, twice, thrice with a muffled thwap of Starfleet-issued fabric before allowing them to settle again over Paul.

“You tucking me in?” Paul mumbled.

“Yes,” Hugh replied, bending and pressing a kiss to Paul’s cheek, “Like the child you are.”

Paul grumbled and made a face, turning grumpily away. Hugh laughed quietly, his breath warm on the back of Paul’s neck.

“When are you sleeping?” Paul murmured, cracking open an eye.

“I don’t know,” Hugh replied, sitting next to him, “The time difference is really tripping me up.”

“Soon,” Paul commanded imperiously, “Come to bed.”

Hugh touched the back of his hand to Paul’s cheek.

“I will,” he promised.

Paul closed his eyes again, leaning into his touch.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said finally, quietly.

Hugh smiled.

“I love you too,” he replied.

He watched Paul drift off, curled up tight in his nest of blankets, then stood, heading to the kitchen to clean up the mess of a dinner they had had. He heard Straal start the shower in the bathroom and hummed quietly to himself as he packed up the leftovers and scrubbed down the sink, nosing his way curiously through the contents of each kitchen cabinet when he was done.

Straal emerged from the bathroom in regulation pyjamas and shuffled straight to bed with a semi-coherent mumbled thanks. Seeing this, Hugh snapped off the kitchen light and felt his way to his bag, which he’d left by Paul’s desk, pawing his way through it in the dark for his own nightclothes. He changed quickly, then gingerly made his way back to Paul’s bed, tripping over one of his boots on the way with a muffled curse.

He hovered uncertainly at Paul’s side, sensing more than seeing the rise and fall of his chest. He sat slowly on the edge of the bed, watching, waiting--for what, he didn’t know.

Paul turned to him, as if sensing his warmth.

Gently, Hugh swung his legs up onto the bed and laid back on top of the covers, hands folded behind his head. Paul wriggled closer, nudging his shoulder with his forehead. After a moment of hesitation, Hugh wrapped an arm around him and pressed his face into Paul’s hair, eyes closed deeply settled, content.

In the darkness, Paul returned his invisible smile.


	12. Chapter 12

Hugh looked up expectantly from his seat on the inset bench in the deserted hall as the triple-sealed doors wheezed open.

“Sorry,” Straal said with a grimace as he emerged from the hulking depths of the science division’s most esoteric lab space.

Hugh huffed a laugh and shrugged.

“Coffee?” he offered, holding out one of the three steaming mugs he had arrayed on the low shelf beside him.

“You’re a saint,” Straal muttered, gratefully taking the mug with restrained desperation, “Thanks.” Hugh’s eyebrows soared as he gulped down its scalding contents in one go and turned back to him, brow furrowed. “How long’ve you been waiting out here?” he asked.

Hugh shrugged again and waved his PADD.

“Long enough to realize I’ve missed out on a lot of trashy holoprogramming since I’ve been gone,” he replied.

Straal grimaced and set down his empty mug.

“Sorry,” he repeated with just the hint of a sigh, “It’s, uh--” he glanced over his shoulder at the sealed doors, then back at Hugh, “--a little bit more complex of an analysis than we thought it would be.”

“Don’t worry,” Hugh said, smiling faintly, “I know how he gets.”

Straal paused, fingers tapping out an absent rhythm on his opposite arm, then returned the smile. After a long moment, he cleared his throat.

“He’s a lucky guy,” he said quietly.

Hugh shrugged again, taking a small sip from his own mug and letting his gaze slide away, back to the sealed doors. Straal sighed and wearily ground his knuckles into his eyes in a vain effort to clear away the grit left over from a sleepless night.

“We’ll probably be another few hours,” he said, faint note of apology an undercurrent in his rough voice, “I just--” he waved a hand at the large window pouring generous sunlight into the grimly empty hall, “--needed a break.”

“Yeah,” Hugh replied, “You want something to eat?” He reached into the bag neatly perched on the windowsill behind him and pulled out a smaller, crinkled package. “Real eggs in a gluten-free, dairy-free biscuit.”

Straal eyed him suspiciously. Hugh snorted.

“You’ve definitely been living with Paul too long,” he said, lobbing the sandwich into Straal’s fumbling hands, “People are capable of helping out without being huge assholes about it.”

“Sorry,” Straal muttered again, quickly unwrapping the sandwich, “And thanks.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Hugh hummed, turning back to his PADD.

Straal watched him carefully as he wolfed down his breakfast.

“I’ll kick him out as soon as I can,” he said.

“No rush,” Hugh replied, tucking himself back into the snug corner of the bench. He waved his PADD again. “I should probably start my boards prep.”

“Oh, right,” Straal said, crumpling up the wrapper and chucking it into a nearby recombinator, “When are you sitting them?”

“Next week,” Hugh replied absently.

“Next week,” Straal repeated.

Hugh looked up at him, confused.

“Yeah,” he said, “What?”

“How many are you taking?”

“Well,” Hugh said, “Starfleet requires I have at least two--Emergency or Internal and something else--so I thought I’d double-down and go for four.”

Straal blinked.

“Four?” he repeated, “That’s a little excessive.”

Hugh shrugged again, that small, inconsequential twitch of the shoulder, and turned back to his PADD. A tired smile slowly stretched itself across Straal’s face.

“Of course,” he said.

“Hmm?” Hugh looked up from his PADD again, eyebrows raised.

“Of course,” Straal repeated, “Of course Paul would fall for another fucking _genius_.”

Hugh frowned.

“Well, that’s flattering, but--”

“--and a _closeted_ genius at that,” Straal continued, “You know--” he held up a finger, “--the UH on Alpha Centauri has a reputation as a strictly non-teaching hospital because that’s where all the offworld bigwigs go when they want to bypass the Starfleet regs on Earth. I’ve been wondering how you got a fellowship there.”

Hugh set his PADD down and crossed his legs neatly at the knee.

“Boards are pretty much a formality for you now, aren’t they?” Straal said.

Hugh cocked his head.

“Not really,” he replied, “I still need to pass them.”

Straal snorted.

“My cousin in Medical told me you’re sort of a big shot.”

“Lies,” Hugh said drily, glancing back down at his PADD.

“One of your specialities is FTL neuro tech, isn’t it?”

“That stuff’s been around for decades.”

“Yeah, but--” Straal hesitated, licking his lips before continuing, “You were the first one to utilize entirely organic substrates to reverse synaptic pruning in a non-Newtonian fluid.” He searched Hugh’s face. “Right?”

Hugh looked up at him and sighed.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“I _knew_ it!” Straal exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air, “That was _huge!_ It _completely_ changed our approach to our research when we got that solid _proof_ that neural network analogues could exist on the macro level.”

“Really,” Hugh said.

“I’m going to need to pick your brain about some of this,” Straal muttered feverishly, “I can’t believe it was you--this whole time, and you’ve been _living with me_ , I can’t--”

The lab doors wheezed open again.

“Straal, you said you were taking a _break_ , not a fucking vacation,” Paul snarled, storming out, “I--”

He caught sight of Hugh--and Straal, frozen in a fit of apoplectic disbelief--and stopped short.

“Oh,” he said, “Hey. I didn’t--” he squinted into the sun and blinked rapidly. Swearing under his breath, he yanked out his communicator and checked the time. “Oh, shit,” he muttered, “Fuck. I didn’t realize it was already… tomorrow. Today.”

Hugh laughed and stood, handing him a still-steaming mug of what smelled distinctly like hot chocolate.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied easily, “Straal and I were just having a little chat.”

Straal realized his jaw was still hovering in the vicinity of the brushed steel floor and snapped his mouth shut with a painful clack.

“Mmm,” Paul said, inhaling his hot chocolate in much the same fashion as Straal had his coffee.

“Did you _know?_ ” Straal choked out, slightly strangled.

“Know what?” Paul muttered, setting the empty mug back down on the bench.

“What he did?”

Paul frowned, carefully unwrapping the small packet Hugh handed to him.

“Who?” he asked.

“ _Hugh!_ ”

Paul took a bite of his breakfast and chewed slowly.

“What about him?”

“He--”

“--did the laundry the morning,” Hugh jumped in, offering Paul his own barely-touched mug of hot chocolate.

“No, he--”

“--cleaned out the fridge?” Paul supplied, sipping from the mug as Hugh held it for him with both hands, a suspicious quirk to his lips.

“ _No,_ he--”

“--alphabetized our spice rack?”

“ _We don’t have a fucking spice rack!_ ”

“Jesus, Straal, if you wanted one so badly, you could’ve just told me. Isn’t Christmas coming up? I’m sort of Jewish, but I’d still get you one for Hanukkah.”

Straal violently pinched the bridge of his nose.

“ _Paul_ ,” he groaned, low and pained.

“Yes, dear,” Paul replied.

Hugh turned away to hide the smile on his face. Paul nudged him with his hip, biting down on his lip to keep from bursting out laughing. Straal dropped his hand with a sigh and looked back up at them, eyes narrowing as he took in their expressions.

“Oh, Christ,” he said, “You know. You knew.”

“Knew what?” Paul replied innocently around his last bite of breakfast.

“That… That paper on neural applications… The one we...” Straal fumbled, then heaved a heavy sigh of good-natured defeat. “Your boyfriend is a genius,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Paul replied, sipping again from Hugh’s mug of hot chocolate, “So?” To Hugh, he whispered loudly, “He’s a _big fan_.”

“I feel like such an idiot,” Straal said blankly, “‘Culber, H.’ H.” he gestured at Hugh, “ _H_. Hugh. Hugh Culber.”

“I’m sure he’ll sign your forehead if you ask him really nicely,” Paul said sweetly, “But the marriage proposal will have to wait.”

“Ookay,” Hugh said, placing a restraining hand on Paul’s chest, “That’s enough.”

“I can take a picture for the two of you,” Paul continued, regardless.

“ _Paul_ ,” Hugh sighed. Paul rolled his eyes but shut his mouth, amusement twisting at the corners. Hugh turned back to Straal. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realize this was such a... big deal for you. It was kind of an obscure thing.”

“We study _alien mushrooms_ ,” Straal said.

“True,” Hugh admitted.

“And that adjourns the first gathering of the Hugh Culber Fan Club,” Paul said, glancing down at his communicator again, “We need to re-plate our cultures. Come on.” He grabbed Straal’s sleeve and steered him back towards the lab doors. Hugh pecked him on the cheek as he passed, smiling at the flush at sprang up the back of Paul’s neck.

“Should I reschedule dinner?” he called.

Paul flapped a hand at him as he and Straal waited for their credentials to be authenticated.

“No, but maybe we should bring Straal along,” he said over his shoulder.

“I’m never going to live this down, am I?” Straal moaned as the door wheezed open again.

Paul laughed, a truly astonishing sound.

“No fucking shit,” he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Somebody's twin brother makes an unexpected (re)appearance.


	13. Chapter 13

“So,” Hugh said, standing just in the doorway, “This is nice.”

Paul popped his head in around Hugh’s shoulder and made a face.

“It’s small,” he replied.

Hugh shrugged and strode into the room, setting his bag down on the desk. He straightened, hands on hips, and surveyed his new quarters. A loft bed sat above the desk, leaving just enough space against the opposite wall for a small dresser and sink.

“This is a fucking closet,” Paul muttered, nosing his way irritably around the room.

“At least I get a window,” Hugh replied mildly. He moved his bag to the dresser and began unpacking--neat rolls of underthings, crisply-pressed uniforms, socks tucked into boots. A standard-issue hygiene kit. Civilian clothes--bright bursts of color, tucked away, out of sight.

Paul sat in the desk chair and watched him putter around the room, nudging the wardrobe a bit to the side to assuage some neurotic desire, pulling the ladder away from the bed and leaning it up in the entryway.

“You’re pouting,” Hugh said, collapsing his bag and tucking it cleverly out of sight in his wardrobe.

“I’m not,” Paul replied sourly.

Hugh sighed and closed the wardrobe door. He turned to face Paul, who peered mournfully at him over the back of the chair. Hugh smiled faintly and took Paul’s hands in his.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just stay with us,” Paul said, allowing Hugh to pull him to his feet.

“Paul, I’m only a ten-minute shuttle ride away. And you know it’s regulation that I stay on-campus until I’m posted.”

Paul looked away and licked his lips.

“When do you hear about that?” he asked, knowing full well the answer, “This week?”

“Friday,” Hugh replied, kissing Paul gently on the lips.

Paul took a strained, shallow breath.

“You just have to be so fucking good at what you do, don’t you?” he said tightly, “They couldn’t have just stranded you here.”

“Sorry,” Hugh replied quietly.

Paul’s lips quirked crookedly, tinged in bitterness. Hugh cupped his face in a hand and stroked back the hair at his temple in a familiar gesture.

“Come on,” he said, “It’s Christmas Eve. Let’s celebrate a little, hm?”

Paul laughed and playfully shied away.

“I’m Jewish,” he replied.

“I hear they’re hosting a live broadcast of _La Boheme_ in the rec room.”

Paul pulled a face.

“For Christmas?” he said, “That’s a little depressing.”

“But Paul,” Hugh begged in mock despair, “It’s Kasseelian opera. From that famous opera house on that one moon near Starbase 46.”

“Ugh. No. Absolutely not.”

“Fine,” Hugh sighed dramatically, “Suggest something else that doesn’t involve you sitting here _sulking_.”

“I _wasn’t sulking_.”

“Oh, honey.”

Paul scowled.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” he muttered.

“I never said it needed to have anything to do with Christmas,” Hugh replied, “Let’s just go out and do--something.”

“Can’t we just stay in and bitch about how small your closet is?”

“Paul, my room is substantially bigger than your average closet.”

“It’s not like you’ve spent enough time in it to know.”

Hugh sighed.

“Walked right into that one, dear,” Paul said.

“You can be such a child sometimes, you know?”

Paul’s tart reply was silenced by the shrill screech of his communicator. He sighed.

“Really?” Hugh said, a faint note of disappointment creeping into his voice, “On Christmas?”

“Eve,” Paul replied, pulling the communicator from his belt, “It’s Christmas Eve. And I’m _Jewish_.” He flipped the communicator open. “Hugh’s being culturally insensitive,” he said, smirking as Hugh rolled his eyes and turned away, “So you called at a good time.”

“Paul, you should probably come back to our place,” Straal said, voice crackling slightly through the communicator’s speakers.

Paul frowned.

“Why?” he asked, returning Hugh’s look of concern with a shrug, “It’s Hugh who’s moving out, not me. I’ll be back later tonight.”

“Paul--” Straal’s sigh was cut off by a sharp scuffle, a familiar, yet somehow alien voice raised in protest in the background.

Paul froze, pale eyes wide, mouth half-open, disbelief etched into his furrowed brow.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” Paul demanded, wrenching himself away from Hugh, “Is that _Mark?_ ”

“Paul,” Straal said again, “You should come back.”

“Go,” Hugh said quietly, sliding his hand onto Paul’s shoulder, “It’s fine.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Paul hissed, gripping his communicator tightly, jaw clenched. “Fuck.” He met Hugh’s gaze, saw the warmth and reassurance. “ _Fine_ ,” he spat into the communicator, eyes fixed on Hugh’s, “Fine, I’ll be there.” Violently, he snapped his communicator shut.

A brief tableau.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Hugh asked, hand still resting on Paul’s shoulder, a familiar, comforting weight.

Paul shook his head tightly.

“You don’t want to get involved,” he muttered, running an uncharacteristically unsteady hand through his hair. “My brother--” he trailed off and shook his head again. He looked up at Hugh. “It’s messy,” he said.

“Perfect,” Hugh replied. He slid his hand down Paul’s arm and into his hand.

“Hugh--” Paul began warningly, pulling away.

“--Christmas,” Hugh said, tightening his grip, “Family.”

“I’m Jewish.”

“I’m gay.”

Paul blinked, momentarily derailed. Hugh placed his other hand on Paul’s chest and waited until Paul looked back up at him.

“It’s part of who we are,” he said quietly.

Paul stared at him in silence, shame and reluctance raging behind his eyes. After a long, fraught moment, he curled his fingers around Hugh’s.

Hugh cocked his head, a small smile curling the corner of his mouth.

* * *

Paul keyed open the door to his apartment with an irritated jab. Stiffly, he hovered in the doorway until Hugh nudged him forward towards the sound of murmured conversation.

Straal looked up from his seat on his bed as they entered, dark eyes warily searching Paul’s face, finding nothing, and settling on Hugh’s instead. Across from him sat a ghost.

It was Paul, but not Paul. He was smaller, somehow, hunched and tired with the same nervous sort of uncertainty that Hugh had distantly realized bubbled beneath Paul’s biting scorn. His eyes, red-rimmed behind thick-framed glasses, darted between the three of them.

“Hey,” Straal said, standing.

“Thanks for calling us,” Hugh said when Paul remained stubbornly silent.

Straal smiled tightly.

“Yeah,” he replied. His voice sharpened as he directed his next words at Paul. “I’ll leave you guys to talk it out.”

No one spoke as he grabbed a jacket and left the room, leaving them all to stare at each other in uncomfortable silence. The door slid closed. Still, no one spoke. Hugh sensed the tension radiating from the stiff lines of Paul’s shoulders and twitched, suppressing the need to _fix_ , to _heal_. Unconsciously, he brushed their hands together. Paul looked down sharply and flinched away.

“I’m sorry,” Mark said in a painfully hoarse voice, “I didn’t—”

“--Oh, shut up,” Paul sighed, sinking down onto the edge of Straal’s bed. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and pinched the bridge of his nose. To Hugh, he said, “Brother, in case you couldn’t tell.” He turned back to Mark. Sighed again. “Boyfriend,” he said quietly. After a beat, he added, bone-dry, “In case you couldn’t tell.”

Mark smiled weakly, hands drowning in the overlong cuffs of a familiar sweater.

“Mark,” he said to Hugh, fumbling awkwardly between a wave and an aborted handshake, “Mark. Uh. I’m Mark.”

Hugh smiled warmly, seating himself beside Paul so their shoulders only just touched.

“I’m Hugh,” he replied, “It’s good to finally meet you.”

Mark choked out a laugh and ducked his head, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Yeah,” he said, “Same.”

He took a shallow, shuddering breath, teeth sunk deep into his bottom lip. Paul stared at the faded shag carpet.

“Would it be alright if I stayed with you for a little?” Mark said quietly, “Straal said he’d be okay with it.”

“Of course he did,” Paul muttered.

Hugh watched a muscle twitch in Mark’s cheek, watched his jaw clench, watched him swallow his words.

“I just need a place,” Mark said, “I don’t really--”

Paul snapped his head up.

“Why didn’t you just go home?” he snapped.

“I didn’t want to,” Mark replied, voice cloudy and tired, “I just--” he opened his hands half-heartedly, blinking furiously. He swallowed audibly. “I just need some time to get myself back together. But, I mean, if you don’t...” He trailed off, fiddling with the overlong sleeves of his sweater.

Paul sat up. Hugh turned to him, reading frustration in the way he pressed his lips together, a pale thin line slashing through the sharp angularity of his face.

“Oh, fuck,” he said under his breath. Mark flinched. Paul sighed again. “I’m not going to kick you out,” he snapped, “What the fuck do you take me for?”

Mark looked at him uncertainly over the rims of his glasses, eyebrows raised.

“Mark, for fuck’s sake--” Paul cut himself off, scowled, and tried again. “What _happened?_ ” he demanded.

Mark slid off his glasses, twirling them around in his hands as he stared fixedly at his scuffed sneakers. Paul fidgeted impatiently. Hugh placed a hand firmly on his knee. Slowly, Mark pushed his glasses back onto his face and looked up at Paul.

“You’re not the only one who’s bailed on a funeral,” he said.

Paul stilled. Hugh watched as realization hit, struck by the two of them face-to-face, fractured mirror images, the same sun reflected in the lenses of their glasses as they sought each other out, transparency hovering, shimmering, shattering into a fragile, tenuous immediacy. Mark bit his lip, face twisted, brow furrowed furiously, stubborn pride denying the tears that slowly tracked down his face.

“When?” Paul asked quietly.

“Last week,” Mark replied, lifting his glasses and pawing at his eyes again, “But he’s been in the hospital since the beginning of the month.”

Paul stared down at his lap.

“I knew I couldn’t keep up the rent alone,” Mark continued, words tumbling out, “And it’s not like I wanted to stay there after--” he stumbled, “-- _after_. And _Dad_ never knew what was really going on so I couldn’t just--” he paused, licked his lips. “I just needed to get away.” He looked up at Paul. “Start over.”

Paul sat back, gaze fixed intently on his brother.

“Okay,” he said after a while. “Okay,” he repeated, firmly. “We’ll figure something out.”

Mark smiled cautiously.

“Okay,” Paul repeated, obviously forcing cheer into his voice, “So. You’ll stay here--on the one condition that you talk Hugh out of dragging us all to a live broadcast of _La Boheme,_  a la Kasseelian opera.”

Hugh scrambled to squelch his surprise but was unable to mask the curiously proud smile that crept onto his face. Mark blinked, caught similarly off-guard.

“Kasseelian opera?” he parroted.

“There’s going to be a live broadcast at nine,” Hugh explained, playfully nudging Paul with his shoulder, “I’ve been trying to convince Paul to come with me.”

Mark turned his cautious smile to Hugh.

“Really?” he asked, brushing the back of a sleeve across his eyes, “How’s that going?”

“It’s not looking too good,” Hugh said gravely, “I might have to come up with some other excuse to get him out of the house.”

“Stop trying to shove Christmas down our fucking throats,” Paul muttered, scowling, “How many times do I have to say it--we’re Jewish.”

Hugh ignored the surprise on Mark’s face and pulled Paul to his feet.

“And how many times do _I_ have to say it? It’s not all about Christmas.” He turned to Mark, who watched them with eyes clouded by memory. “But if Kasseelian opera really isn’t your thing, I’ve heard that there’s a new cafe opening up on the bayfront,” he said, “It’s supposed to be this nice, homey place, very vintage home deco.”

“Oh, I don’t know if--” Mark said, shaken out of his brown study, “I mean, it sounds like your guys--” he trailed off.

“Oh no,” Paul sighed, irritably jabbing a finger into Hugh’s stomach, “If I have to deal with this, you’re going to have to too.” He turned to Hugh. “Might as well drag Straal along too.”

Hugh shrugged.

“Sure,” he said, grinning at them both, “The more the merrier.”

“Fuck me,” Paul snarled. He snatched up his communicator and began typing out a message. “Hey, that cafe,” he said, “What’s it called?”

“ _The_ _Life Cafe_ ,” Hugh said grandly.

Mark blanched, frozen in the process of rewrapping his scarf.

“How original,” Paul muttered, completing his message and sending it off with an irritated stab of his thumb. He looked up at them both when his communicator chimed almost instantly. “Straal says he’ll meet us there.”

“Great,” Hugh said, “Let’s get going.”

He caught Paul’s eye and inclined his head slightly over his shoulder at Mark, who stood fumbling with his scarf. Paul’s gaze flitted over to his brother, and wordlessly, he stepped aside, allowing Hugh to step out of the room before him.

Hugh waited in the hall, hands in his pockets, chin sunk to his chest. It was only a few minutes later that Paul and Mark emerged, shoulder to shoulder, Mark’s scarf tucked into his coat pocket. He sniffled quietly around a small, crooked smile.

“It’s much warmer here than it is in New York,” Paul said to Hugh, “But he gets cold easily.”

“Really,” Hugh said as they set off down the hall together, Mark sandwiched protectively between them, “I think I know someone just like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, more _Rent_.


	14. Chapter 14

NOW 

“ _There’s a clearing in the forest. That’s how they go._ ”

Paul jerked awake, heart hammering, mind ablaze in a swirl of dizzying color, reaching, straining, racing up and out, beyond and through and through and through again and again, again, again--

\--Large, strong hands. Warms hands on his shoulders, cupping his face, smoothing back his hair. Careful hands, laying him back down, resting on his chest. Familiar hands.

“Hugh,” he croaked, half-blind with confusion, searching for his anchor, his baseline.

Gentle hands, cupping his face again. Paul leaned into the touch, drifting. Something large and warm settled beside him, pulling him close, pulling him near, cradling him with the nameless emotion that had been so very absent from his galaxies, his shattered universes that had grown thick with the gnarled, glaring roots of accusation as he’d hurtled by.

Tender hands, carding through his hair, so slow, so familiar.

“Hugh,” he rasped again, mind swirling, here and then, now and again.

Pleading hands, wrapped around his, clutching shoulders, promising, promising--promising what?

Absent hands, even if for a breath.

“Hugh,” he whispered.

Faithful hands, soothing hands, always, always--


	15. Chapter 15

Slowly, they walked, hand-in-hand, chins tucked against the miserable winter rain.

Paul stared at his boots, watched them gleam and fade beneath the streetlights with each step. Hugh’s hand was warm in his. Warmth. It was one of Hugh’s many constants. Warm hands. Warm smile. Warm eyes. Paul burrowed deeper into his brother’s scarf and blinked away the rain. They turned the last corner, and Hugh’s building loomed in the night, peppered with light from regulation-spaced windows. The ghost of a shadow whispered by on the third floor before the blinds closed, shuttering, sheltering.

Together, they climbed the steps, hands still entwined, through the bioscanners, which recognized Paul as a Frequent Approved Visitor and allowed him through without stunning him with a 50,000-volt bolt to the small of his back. Hugh glanced at him when they reached the elevator bay, but Paul fixed his eyes on the closed doors before him, staring blankly at his reflection in one brushed metal panel, Hugh’s in the other.

The doors slid apart.

Hugh led him in, and the doors shut again, ensconcing them in silence. Paul swallowed, looked down quickly at his boots, then back up again at their distorted reflection.

“Are you packed?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Hugh replied, warm but subdued. Paul felt his gaze settle on him. “You want to stay tonight?”

Paul turned to him then and smiled crookedly. Hugh returned his smile and reached up, smoothing back Paul’s hair.

The elevator doors opened, but they lingered, devouring each other with the slightest of touches. Paul dropped his eyes first. He led Hugh out of the elevator, boots silent on the standard beige carpet that lined the hall.

Hugh’s room was, as was typically the case, in perfect order. His PADD sat neatly in the center of his desk, stylus clipped to the side, message notification light blinking merrily. Paul scowled and yanked off his scarf, tossing it onto Hugh’s chair with contained violence.

Hugh sighed.

“Darling, it’s not the chair’s fault,” he said, bending and calmly slipping off his boots.

“You’re right,” Paul replied mordantly. He released Hugh’s hand and dropped into the desk chair. “It’s yours.”

“ _Excuse_ me,” Hugh said, slowly pacing across the room to Paul, who watched him approach with an expression that was half-embarrassed, half-despondent. Slowly, Hugh braced his hands on the back of the chair and bent until their faces were less than a breath apart. They stared into each other, wondering when--not if, certainly not if--they would have the chance to do this again.

Impulsively, Paul closed the gap and pressed their lips together, leaning into him with the keen edge of desperation. Somewhat stunned, Hugh allowed himself to reciprocate, pressing Paul back into the chair and straddling him, hands cupping his face, molding himself to the sharp angles, the jagged edges and smoothing them out, filling them with all the warm reassurance he could not provide. Paul trembled beneath his unsteady hands, taut with emotion denied.

When they broke apart, Paul clutched him tightly, pressing his face into Hugh’s chest. Hugh’s throat tightened, and he carded careful hands through Paul’s hair, soothing--though for whom, he didn’t care to think.

“I love you, you know,” he murmured, “That’s one thing that won’t change.”

Paul pulled away, jaw clenched.

“Five weeks,” he said hoarsely, bitterly, “I’ve had you for five weeks, and now you’ll be gone for _five years_.”

“We’ll make it work,” Hugh replied, resting a hand against Paul’s cheek, “We’ve done this before.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Paul bit out angrily, blue eyes bright behind thick lenses, “It’s deep space, Hugh. Uncharted space.”

Fear, then, Hugh realized belatedly. Piercing fear, hidden behind uncertainty and anger.

“Paul--” he began.

“--You don’t understand, Hugh,” Paul snapped, his fallback phrase still managing to raise hackles despite its familiarity, “Deep space. That’s what I’ve been studying for the past four years--the mycelial network--” he gestured impatiently, thoughts racing faster than words could follow, “--it’s grounded out there, somewhere we can’t reach, beyond this invisible boundary, this, this--” he stammered, grasping for coherence, failing, and switching gears, “--it’s like a forest, you see? All of space. One big forest.” He held out his hands as if he was cupping a small spherical object. “There are lots of trees in this forests--galaxies, universes, even. All this _clutter_.” He paused, licked his lips intently. “The mycelial network, or at least what we know of it so far, is accessible through something like a, uh--a break in the trees, a _clearing_ , that exists both _within--_ ” he held up his cupped hands, “--and _without_ \--” he dropped his hands to his sides, “--the known perceivable universe. We can’t _see_ it,” he said tightly, “We don’t know exactly where those ‘clearings’ are--we haven’t found anything in explored space, but we do know that this mycelial network is like a highway, or a hyperlane--we’ve taken measurements that have allowed us to conclude that, _yes_ , there  _are_ things--many things--moving through the network, and at _incredible_ speeds.”

“What you don’t know,” Hugh said.

“ _Yes_ ,” Paul bit out, eyes flashing, “ _Yes_. What I don’t know scares me. _Of course_ it does. Something is out there, Hugh,” he continued tightly, “Something with access to this mycelial network, and it’s been able to move almost faster than we’ve been able to detect it.”

“But Paul,” Hugh said, “Isn’t this the whole point of your research? To explore? To discover how the galaxy works?” Paul turned away, flushed. “It’s a five-year exploratory mission,” Hugh continued, “We have no idea what we’re going to find when we get out there, which is exactly why we _need_ to go.”

Paul looked up at him, lips pressed together.

“You’re not an explorer, Hugh,” he said, “You’re not some--some _mad scientist_. You’re a _doctor_.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Hugh returned, “This is _exactly_ what I’m supposed to do. Sit on a ship. Supervise routine vaccinations. Do a little research. Whatever I can do to help the science division carry out their initiative.”

“No,” Paul snapped, hands clenched in the hem of his shirt, “You don’t _understand_.”

“ _What?_ ” Hugh retorted, exasperated. He pushed himself off Paul’s lap and stood. “What am I not understanding? Explain it to a mere doctor, _please_.”

“It’s _dangerous_ ,” Paul snarled.

“I _know_ ,” Hugh replied, “We’ve been through this. Something big is out there. Big news. But I’m just a junior medical officer. It’s my duty as a doctor--”

 _“--but you’re not just a doctor!”_ Paul shouted, lunging to his feet. The chair toppled behind him with a crash. “You’re not _just_ a doctor, Hugh,” he repeated, voice cracking, “You’re _my_ \--” He broke off and turned away sharply, pacing to the window. Blankly, he stared through his mirrored reflection at the driving rain. Hugh remained where he was, struck by memory, a storm within a storm, mirrors all the way down.

“I don’t think you know how much you mean to me,” Paul said quietly, so quietly Hugh could have believed he’d imagined it. “I don’t think I know either. And you know what?” He turned slightly, angular features cast in sharp relief against the thick night. “ _That_ unknown is what really… what really--” He choked and fell silent, folding his arms tightly across his chest, hugging himself. Slowly, he turned to look out the window again. “It scares me,” he murmured, “What I think I might do. What I might give up.” He laughed, a strangled, bitter sound. “Everything,” he said, “All my work. Everything I’ve done.” He turned sharply back to Hugh and snarled, “I wouldn’t give a fuck if we figured out the fucking mycelial network-- _fuck_ \--if we figured out how to _navigate_ the goddamn thing.” He clenched jaw, hands falling to his sides in defeat. “Not if it meant losing you.”

Hugh said nothing, completely blank. Paul flinched.

“Right,” he said, “Okay.” He sucked in a breath. “Look, if that came across a little strong--”

“--Paul, you try so hard to be an asshole sometimes that you forget you really aren’t one at all.”

Paul stiffened, mouth half-open, heart hammering a three-four beat in his chest. Hugh crossed the tiny room slowly. Gently, he took Paul’s hands in his.

“Hugh--” Paul protested. He pulled away. Hugh followed.

“So what if I don’t understand,” Hugh said, sliding a hand around Paul’s waist, “At least, not the way you want me to.” Paul looked away, naked, frightened. “Does that really matter?”

“ _Of course_ it matters,” Paul insisted angrily.

Hugh smiled, soft and warm.

“Paul Stamets,” he said, cocking his head, “There are so many things about you I don’t understand--and probably never will. Do you really think that means I’ll love you any less?”

“Hugh, this isn’t about--”

“--I would never do anything to hurt you,” Hugh said firmly, bending so he could look up into Paul’s face, “ _Ever_. You understand?”

Paul bit his lip, eyes filling.

“Please come back,” he said hoarsely, “Please tell me you’ll come back.”

“Oh, honey,” Hugh said, pulling Paul into his arms. “Everything within my power,” he murmured.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” Paul whispered into Hugh’s neck, “Why am I crying?”

“Because in addition to being a pure fucking goddamn genius, you’re also a delicate, sensitive human being.”

Paul buried his face in Hugh’s shoulder.

“I am not _delicate_ ,” he mumbled.

Hugh squeezed him tightly.

“Fragile, then,” he replied.

“I’m not _sensitive_ either.”

Hugh snorted.

“Yes, you are. I’m going off on a space safari, not _war_ or anything. Worst case scenario is we’ll just get eaten by a gormagander and pop out on the other side in some alternate universe where you’re Vulcan’s first breakout pop star and I’m just a lowly lichen or something.”

“Gormaganders aren’t carnivorous, and I think you’re ridiculous.”

Hugh laughed quietly.

“That,” he said, “Is understandable.”

Paul pulled away and looked up at him.

“Am _I_ being ridiculous?” he asked.

“No, Paul,” Hugh replied, kissing him gently, “Not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And we're heading into the homestretch here. This should be wrapped in time for the January premiere (three chapters left).  
>  Thanks for reading!


	16. Chapter 16

“Stop it,” Paul said flatly.

Across from him, Mark shifted guiltily and lowered his camera. Beside him, Hugh placed a hand on Paul’s knee and squeezed lightly.

The shuttle hummed around them, the pre-dawn sun streaking the horizon beyond the massive domed windows. Paul glanced at Hugh out of the corner of his eye and unconsciously mirrored his brother’s nervous tick, twitching minutely in his seat. Hugh smiled faintly and slid down in his seat so he could lean himself against Paul’s shoulder.

Paul looked down at him, jaw clenched. Ignoring Mark’s burning gaze, he slowly pried his hand from its death grip on Hugh’s bag and carefully, carefully laced their fingers together. Tension drained to familiarity, and familiarity to warmth. Paul closed his eyes and rested his cheek against Hugh’s close-cropped hair, forcing himself to remain in the present, to deny the encroaching future.

The silence between them lingered--like lazy weekend mornings, quiet weekday evenings, in bed, in the park, hand-in-hand. Murmured conversation from the few others scattered throughout the shuttle--all Starfleet personnel, all headed to the dock to report to the _USS Larson_ for only the second commissioned five-year mission in Starfleet history--filtered through in snatches, mostly subdued, but with an undercurrent of intense anticipation. Paul willed time to stop, to capture this moment just as it was: Hugh at his side, warm and solid. Mark across from them, checking his film equipment in preparation for the launch. The peace and promise of dawn.

“You ever seen a Walker-class starship before?” Hugh asked, shattering the infinite stillness.

Paul opened his eyes. Hugh tightened his grip.

“No,” Mark replied, pushing up his glasses with quick fingers. He laughed half-heartedly. “I’ve never even been out of the country before.”

“Same here,” Hugh said wryly, “And then I joined Starfleet.”

Mark glanced at Paul, wary question in his eyes. Paul shrugged minutely with his unoccupied shoulder.

“What made you want to join?” Mark asked, looking back down at Hugh.

Hugh laughed quietly, shifting slightly against Paul’s shoulder. Paul closed his eyes again, familiar with the story and content to listen.

“I got a scholarship,” Hugh replied simply.

“Uh huh,” Mark said.

“From every medical school he applied to,” Paul added without opening his eyes.

Hugh sighed.

“So why Starfleet?” Mark repeated, eyebrows raised.

“To see the galaxy,” Hugh answered, “The universe, everything, you know.”

Paul snorted.

“You have something to add, honey?” Hugh asked drily.

“Hmm,” Paul hummed in response, a low rumble deep in his chest, smile curling faintly through the unshaven scruff on his chin. Hugh’s hand tightened around his again.

“I guess you could say I was looking for something more,” Hugh said finally, relenting, “I didn’t do my undergrad at the Academy, you know, and after those four years of sweating it out over grades and begging for clinical experience and lab work, I thought there had to be something more I was working for than just, I don’t know, setting up a cushy private practice somewhere and making money I didn’t need.”

“You could have donated some of that money to the universe’s struggling astromycologists,” Paul said.

“Or bought my mom a house,” Hugh replied, but without heat. He shrugged again. “It’s worked out so far. I love Starfleet culture,” he paused before adding sardonically, “But keep in mind that I’m saying this _before_ I’ve been blasted off to five years in uncharted space. It could all change after that.”

“Not helping,” Paul grumbled.

“Then again, it probably won’t,” Hugh laughed, tapping his unoccupied hand against Paul’s chest, “If I hadn’t joined Starfleet, we probably wouldn’t ever have met, so I guess I’m doomed to appreciate it for the rest of my life.”

Paul felt the familiar burning flush creep up his neck and kept his eyes stubbornly closed, possessed of no desire whatsoever to see the amused look he was certain his brother had trained in his direction.

“Anyways,” Hugh continued, the teasing in his voice immediately setting off alarms in Paul’s mind, “I’ve been meaning to ask--you’ve obviously known Paul much longer than I have--what embarrassing stories can you dish?”

Paul’s eyes flew open.

“ _Hugh_ ,” he snapped.

He felt more than saw the grin Hugh levelled at his brother and transferred his glare to Mark, who watched them slyly.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Paul snarled.

“Well,” Mark said, setting his bag on the seat beside him with facetious care, “You probably know Paul better than I do, but I think I might be able to, ah, contribute to your general _perception_ of my brother.”

_“Mark."_

“Oooh, perfect,” Hugh said, settling tighter against Paul’s shoulder.

“When we were fourteen--”

“--Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Paul muttered, planting his face in his hands. Hugh slid artfully from his shoulder into his lap, large, dark eyes laughing silently up at him.

“When we were fourteen,” Mark repeated, grinning brightly, “We got into a fight about something--”

“--you’d hardcoded my computer to play ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ at full volume, _on loop_ whenever I powered it on.”

“Oh, yeah!” Mark said, grin broadening, “I never understood why you got so wound up about it--”

“--you coded it in _Klingon_ \--”

“--we _had_ a universal translator--”

“--it wiped out my text editing processor--”

“--oh, _big deal_ \--”

“--it’s a fucking big deal when you’re fucking _dyslexic_ and can’t read for _shit_ without it!”

Hugh placed a hand against Paul’s chest. Mark snapped his mouth shut.

“Oh,” he said. He blinked a few times. “Right. So _that’s_ why--”

“--no _shit_. I had to recode the whole fucking thing from scratch. Took me weeks.”

Mark bit his lip.

“Sorry?” he offered, “I didn’t realize, really.”

“Oh, please,” Paul muttered, brushing Hugh’s hand from his chest, “As if you haven't done worse.”

“Anyways--” Mark continued, a tad more nervously.

“--That was _not_ permission to continue,” Paul snapped.

“He doesn’t need your permission, honey,” Hugh said mildly from flat out on his back, “If he wants to tell us a story about how the two of you were precocious little assholes, he can tell us a story about how the two of you were precocious little assholes.”

Paul simmered in silence. Hugh smirked.

“Anyways,” he said, “Please continue.”

“For some unknown reason,” Mark continued, smiling tentatively, “We decided on a footrace to determine once and for all who the superior brother was. Or something.” He shook his head. “I think because we were both small, runty kids who knew we’d get the skin tanned off our asses if our dad ever found out we’d actually, I don’t know, _fought_ each other.” He glanced at Paul, who stared stubbornly out the window, feigning indifference. “So that Thursday after school--” Mark laughed a little, “--we went down to this long, dirt road that, ironically enough, connected our house to the synagogue where our dad was the rabbi, and said that the first one to get to the halfway point would be the winner of--” he broke off with a frown, “--I have no idea what. Bragging rights. Something. Just the winner. Period.” He shrugged again. “So we lined up at our front stoop, called it together, you know--” he lowered his voice in mock excitement, “--’three, two, one, _go!_ ’ and took off.” He turned to Paul again. “I think we were neck and neck for most of it, right?”

Paul shrugged sourly.

“We were,” Mark confirmed, turning back to Hugh with another grin, “And I think he thought he was going to lose, so he panicked, and--you know how those pro sprinters in the Olympics do the whole--” he jerked his head forward, arms splayed out behind, “--head-lean thing at the finish line?”

“Yeah,” Hugh replied, beginning to see where this was going.

“Well, that’s what he did,” Mark said, “But more dramatically. Right at our imaginary finish line, I see him fucking _throw_ himself through the air in front of me.”

Hugh snickered. Paul glared at the Pacific Ocean. Mark laughed, eyes gleaming.

“And then he fell and broke both wrists.”

“You _what?”_ Hugh yelped, twisting to look back up at Paul.

“I did not _throw_ myself through the air,” Paul snapped acridly.

“That’s sure what it looked like,” Mark snorted.

“I tripped,” Paul replied snippily, “I was overstriding, and I tripped and fell.”

“Well, that definitely makes everything better,” Mark said.

“You broke _both wrists?”_ Hugh repeated incredulously, “Do you know how _hard_ it is to do that?”

“I still won,” Paul insisted, ignoring them both.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Mark said.

“ _Both wrists!?”_ Hugh squawked.

“And we didn’t find out until the next afternoon when he dropped the lighter during Shabbat and set the tablecloth on fire.”

“You just have to go all the way, don’t you?” Hugh said to Paul.

Paul sighed.

“It really didn’t--”

The shuttle chimed a destination proximity warning, and Paul stiffened, snapping his mouth shut. Hugh sat up with a sigh as the shuttle began to slow. Mark watched Paul warily, smile fading.

“You know,” Hugh said, slinging his bag over his shoulder as easily as he changed the subject, “You guys might be able to come aboard before we launch.” He checked the timestrip on the shuttle wall. “We have an hour or so before pre-launch checks actually start.” He glanced at Mark. “I could ask, if you want?”

“Sure,” Mark replied, grinning, clutching his camera to his chest, “That would be great!”

The shuttled eased to a stop, and the doors opened. Paul stood, stony-faced. Hugh took his hand, and Paul whipped his head around to look at him in alarm.

“Shouldn’t we--” he began.

“--No,” Hugh replied firmly, leading him out onto the platform, Mark trailing behind.

Paul hesitated. Hugh turned to look at him, the bustling spacedock lit garishly behind, the _Larson_ looming overhead.

“Paul,” he said earnestly.

Paul swallowed. Reflexively, he pushed up his glasses.

“It’s not going to get you in trouble?” he asked, hedging.

“No,” Hugh said gently.

“Are you sure?”

Hugh stepped in so they were chest-to-chest, eye-to-eye.

“Are you?” he asked quietly.

Paul bit his lip. Remembered to breathe.

“Yeah,” he said. Resolve building, he met Hugh’s suspiciously bright eyes, “Yeah, I am.”

“--Aaand I now pronounce you husband and husband,” Mark said loudly, shifting awkwardly at the far edge of the platform, neck craned as far back as it would go, eyes fixed on the massive starship suspended overhead, “Congratulations.”

“Fuck you, Mark,” Paul snarled.

“Civil conversation,” Hugh reminded him, tugging him away down the steps to join the slow trickle of crew heading for the departure gate. Paul shoved his middle finger into Mark’s face as they passed and earned himself a faceful of camera followed by the rapid clicking of its shutter as it captured a holographic image of a Starfleet officer verbally assaulting a civilian.

Hugh ignored all of this and yanked Paul along behind him to the security checkpoint.

“Hey, Ty!” he called, flagging down a tall, thin absently patrolling human in the red and black uniform of the security subdivision, “Early morning for you.”

Ty sighed and rolled his eyes with a good-natured shrug.

“ _Very_ early,” he replied in a surprisingly deep voice as he rolled to a stop beside them, “But who am I kidding? I wouldn’t miss this launch for anything. _And_ I get bonus duty hours just to wander around and keep nosy civvies out.”

Mark shifted almost guiltily.

“Yeah, about that,” Hugh said. He turned to Paul first, “This Second Lieutenant Stamets, my--” he looked Paul dead in the eye, “--partner. And this--” he pulled Mark forward by the elbow, “--is his brother Mark. Yes, they’re twins.”

Paul blinked, slightly poleaxed.

“Sirs,” Ty greeted. He looked between the two of them. “It’s good to meet you both,” he said. Hugh didn’t bother correcting him.

“Would it be alright if I showed them around the _Larson_ before we head out?” Hugh asked, “It’ll just be a few minutes.”

Ty turned back to him, gaze dropping briefly to their conjoined hands. He looked up and grinned.

“Sure,” he said brightly, “Come on,” he flopped a hand casually over his shoulder, “I’ll get you guys through security.”

“Thanks, man,” Hugh said, pulling Paul and, by proxy, Mark, along behind him, “I owe you one.”

“Nah,” Ty replied, waving the other hand as he scanned his credentials at the clearance gate and held the override button so the three of them could all pass through, “I know how it is.”

Hugh huffed a laugh as the security barrier re-engaged with a quiet hum.

“Tell Marcus I said hi,” he said.

“Will do,” Ty said. He hesitated a moment. “Keep in touch, okay?” he added, “I’m going to be pissed if it’s another five years until I hear from you again.”

“You got it,” Hugh replied.

They waved from opposite sides of the barrier and turned, each to their own path.

“You’ve got some friends in high places,” Mark said, impressed.

“No,” Hugh replied, “Just the right friends.”

Paul smiled faintly as they approached the belly of the ship. Mark pulled out his camera again and sent it soaring on ahead of them.

“You’ve already been assigned your quarters?” Paul asked.

Hugh nodded.

“I’m rooming with someone else on the junior medical team,” he replied.

"Sounds fun," Paul said flatly.

"Oh, you have no idea," Hugh muttered.

They stepped aboard the ship and were met with pure pandemonium.

A frantic Orion in command yellow barreled down the hall, brushing Mark aside as she shouted into her communicator.

"Commander!" Hugh called, "What's--"

"Not now, Hugh!" she hollered, disappearing around the bend.

Paul yanked Hugh out of the way just as a flustered cadet pushing a hovercart brimming with ominously-labelled containers three times his size rattled by. An insistent page for a Commander Orrin to report to Deck 2 blared through the shipwide comm. Distantly, an alarm screeched.

“Uh,” Mark said, wide-eyed as he ducked an automated carrier drone as it whizzed by overhead,  “Is this normal?”

“To a certain extent, yes,” Paul replied slowly, sharing a look with Hugh.

“Mark,” Hugh said reluctantly, “It might be a good idea for you to wait for us back outside.”

“Why?” Mark asked, “Is something wrong?”

“I’m sure everything’s fine,” Hugh replied, “But it’s a little crazier than I thought it would be. Until I figure out what’s going on, I don’t want to risk having any non-Starfleet personnel aboard. The cargo bay should still give you some nice shots,” he added.

“Okay,” Mark said, nodding. He glanced at Paul, who thinned his lips slightly, “Okay,” he repeated, “I’ll meet you there, Paul.”

When he had gone, Paul turned to Hugh.

“ _Orrin?_ ” he growled, “ _He’s_ your CSO?”

“Yep,” Hugh muttered, popping the ‘p’ and setting off down the hall.

“Hugh, that man is _ancient_ ,” Paul hissed, “He was an emeritus professor before I even _started_ at the Academy. They had to drag him out of retirement to consult on one of my dissertations.”

“The brass wanted him, so--” Hugh shrugged, elbowed the controls beside a pair of double doors, and entered the medbay, “--that’s who we got.”

“That’s fucking--”

“--Hey, Charlie!” Hugh called, “D’you know what’s going on?”

Across the room, a young woman, dark-eyed, dark-skinned, and entirely out of uniform looked up from a biomonitor display.

“Scuttlebutt’s that Orrin bit it last night, and they’re scrambling to find a replacement since they need us out so the _Enterprise_ can get in for repairs,” she replied frankly. Her eyes narrowed at Paul. “Who the hell are you?”

Hugh dropped his bag to the floor with a thump, eyebrows raised.

“Charlie, my partner Paul,” he said quickly, “Paul, Charlie, my second-best friend.” He strode across the room, demanding incredulously, “What, you mean Orrin’s dead?”

“Hey, for all I know, scuttlebutt could just be scuttlebutt,” Charlie replied. She slipped off her stool and turned to Paul, dark eyes sharp. “So you’re the mysterious boyfriend,” she said with the hint of an edge, “Took your fucking time to crawl out from under your rock.”

“ _Charlie_ ,” Hugh snapped.

Paul glanced at Hugh.

“Don’t worry,” Charlie snorted, seeing this, “He didn’t spill. Not a word.”

“Give it a break, Charlie,” Hugh said, nettled, “He’s here now. You’ve been introduced. Be nice.”

“Civil conversation,” Paul said.

Hugh pecked him lightly on the cheek and slipped a protective hand around his waist.

“I’m going to drop my stuff off in my quarters,” he said, “You want to come?”

“No, I’d rather keep the galaxy’s cattiest medical officer company,” Paul retorted, scooping up Hugh’s bag and turning for the door. “It was great to meet you, Charlie,” he said over his shoulder, “Thank fuck we’ll never see each other again.”

Hugh sighed, and with a half-apologetic look for Charlie, followed him out into the hall.

“What the fuck was all that about?” Paul fumed when Hugh caught up to him.

“You’re going the wrong way, darling,” Hugh replied, gently taking his shoulders and turning him around.

Paul swiveled sharply, shrugging him off, and marched back the way he had come.

“Charlie’s just a little…” Hugh searched for words, “...She’s just a little like you sometimes.”

“No shit,” Paul snorted.

“She’s a good friend, though,” Hugh said.

“‘Second-best,’” Paul recalled, stopping abruptly by the door Hugh indicated, “Who’s the best?”

Hugh paused in the open doorway, eyebrows raised.

“My mom,” he said flatly.

“Oh,” Paul replied after a pause, brushing past him, “Right.”

Hugh sighed again.

“No, you idiot,” he muttered as the door shut behind him, “ _You’re_ my best friend.”

Paul tossed Hugh’s bag onto the remaining empty bed in the room with slightly more force than was strictly necessary--the other bed was currently strewn with the detritus of a life half-unpacked.

“Oh,” he said, “Okay.”

“Who’s _your_ best friend?” Hugh asked, reaching for his bag and rolling it over so it regained its upright position.

“Straal,” Paul replied.

“Wrong answer,” Hugh said.

“Mark.”

“Is it sad that I know you’re shitting me when you exhaust your friend list of one and resort to naming your brother?”

“I hope we’re a little more than _best friends_ ,” Paul said acidly. He unzipped Hugh’s bag, pulled out a neatly-wrapped rectangular package from the very top, and threw it at Hugh. It smacked into his face with a loud slap.

“Ow,” Hugh said mildly, bending to retrieve the package from the floor. He eyed it curiously. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Kangaroo testicles,” Paul snarled.

"Oh," Hugh said. “I’ve always wanted a pair of those." He immediately held up a finger. “Mind out of the gutter, Stamets,” he commanded.

Paul held up both hands half-heartedly.

“Stop staring and just open the fucking thing,” he snapped.

“You’re so romantic,” Hugh said, using his finger to carefully peel back the paper, “I didn’t even get you anything.”

“I am not _romantic_ ,” Paul said testily, “And I’m not the one blasting off into fucking uncharted space for five fucking years.”

Hugh slid the paper aside and stared at the small, black box in his hand. He looked up at Paul.

“Enlighten me,” he said.

“If your mom isn’t your best friend,” Paul said, “I think she at least makes the top three, right?”

“I’m going to tell Straal you said that.”

“He won’t be surprised.”

“But--”

“ _Will you shut up and let me explain._ ”

Hugh grinned and pressed a kiss to Paul’s rapidly pinking cheek.

“Yes, darling,” he murmured, “Sorry. Explain, please.”

“It’s a subspace transceiver,” Paul said, “Custom-coded. So you can talk to your mom when you’re in the middle of fucking nowhere without clawing your way through the Starfleet queue.”

Hugh stared at him.

“Let me guess,” he said after a long pause, “You have a PhD in--”

“--subspace mechanics, _yes,_ I built it,” Paul interrupted impatiently. He held out his hand for the transceiver, “Let me set it up for you.”

Hugh set the transceiver down on the desk behind him.

“Paul Stamets,” he said, and Paul was alarmed to hear the emotion in his voice, “You are _fucking impossible_.”

“Uh--” was all Paul managed before Hugh crashed into him, lips searching, devouring, desperately, desperately chasing moments of crashing, wheeling time. Hugh pressed him down onto his back, bag thumping unnoticed to the ground as he straddled Paul, one hand splayed on his chest, the other framing his cheek.

“Thank you,” Hugh said quietly. He twirled a contemplative finger through Paul’s hair. “You know, she’s going to want to know who made it for me.”

Paul groaned, flinging his arm across his eyes. Hugh laughed and slumped down onto Paul, completely covering him like a large, solid blanket.

“Get--off--” Paul wheezed, shoving at his chest futilely, “--you _asshole_.”

Hugh laughed louder and, with one deft move, flipped them over so that it was Paul who was stretched flat out on top of him. Almost instinctively, Paul relaxed against his chest, curling his legs up to the side, thin, pale hands braced behind Hugh’s neck.

“I love you,” Hugh whispered.

“I--” Paul began.

The door opened behind him with a sharp clang.

“Oh _,_ Jesus _fucking_ Christ!” snarled a familiar voice, _“Not in our room, Hugh!”_

Paul scrambled to his feet as if electrocuted, red and embarrassed. Hugh sighed and stretched out on his back.

“Come _on_ , Charlie,” he said to the ceiling, “Half an hour and you won’t have to deal with this for five long years.”

“ _She’s_ your fucking roommate?” Paul scowled.

“Hey, pumpkin-head,” Charlie snapped, “Have a little respect.”

“Guys, please,” Hugh said.

 _“'Pumpkin-head'!?_ ”

“Anyways, Orrin’s dead,” Charlie said over Paul’s rising tirade.

Paul snapped his mouth shut with a loud click. Hugh sat up.

“What?” Hugh asked, "That's terrible."

Paul twitched suddenly.

“Uh,” he said, snatching his communicator from his belt, “I’ll be right back. Need to make a call.”

Hugh swiveled to him in mild alarm.

“Paul--?”

His only response was the quiet hiss of the door as it slid shut.

Charlie shot Hugh a look.

“He’s weird, man,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper, "Maybe he had something to do with it."

“ _Watch it_ ,” Hugh snapped. He stood, paused for a long moment, eyes fixed on the door, then sighed. “Comm me if there are any updates, okay?” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie replied, flapping her hand in his face.

Hugh sighed. And hurried out the door.

“Whipped,” Charlie smirked to herself, flopping back onto her bed, “Fucking whipped, I tell you.”

* * *

Hugh found Mark--to his embarrassment, it was only the lack of uniform that afforded him the last-minute realization that it wasn’t Paul--wandering the cargo hold, eyes glued on the live feed from the camera hovering twenty feet or so overhead.

“Hey!” he called, having spent the last fifteen minutes searching the ship to no avail, “Mark! Have you seen Paul anywhere?”

“No,” Mark snorted without turning, “What happened? You try comming him?”

“I don’t know,” Hugh replied, jogging to a stop beside him, “He’s not picking up. Thanks for waiting, by the way,” he added, “It was kind of a false alarm back there.”

Mark shrugged and frowned down at his display.

“What’s all this stuff?” he asked, jabbing a finger at his screen, “All these barrels here. They’re kind of… glowing.”

“I don’t know,” Hugh repeated without looking at the screen, “Something important we might need to last us five years in space? I try not to think too hard about that stuff.”

Mark shot him a look. Hugh relented and squinted apologetically down at the display.

“Which barrels?” he asked.

Mark pointed.

“Those look like...” Hugh trailed off. Slowly, he took the PADD from Mark. “Those are…” He turned sharply to Mark. “Can you zoom in?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Mark replied, swiping the digital controls back onto the screen and increasing the magnification.

Hugh peered at the screen, stomach churning.

“Holy shit,” he said flatly.

“What?” Mark asked, gripping one edge of his PADD tightly, “What are they?”

Hugh straightened abruptly.

“Spores,” he replied, “Those are spores.”

 

* * *

“Holy shit,” Charlie said trenchantly as Hugh re-entered their quarters, Mark trailing behind, “You found him.”

“Uh,” Mark said.

Hugh grimaced.

“No,” he sighed, “This is Mark, Paul’s brother. Twin brother.”

“Oh, fuck me,” Charlie muttered, stretching out across her bed, PADD balanced on her belly, “There’re two of them?”

“Have a seat,” Hugh said to Mark quietly, pulling out his desk chair, “Ignore her.” He straightened and turned to Charlie. “No sign of Paul?” he asked.

“Nada,” Charlie replied breezily, “What an asshole. Ghosted you on your own ship.”

Hugh ignored her using his tremendous wealth of experience and perched on the edge of his bed, arms folded.

“Do you know what sort of stuff Orrin was supposed to be doing aboard?” he asked.

“We’re really the wrong kind of doctor for that,” Charlie said, flicking idly through what appeared to be the latest issue of JAMA, “But I think his pet project had to do with some sort of new fuel source? Organic something, perpetual energy something.”

“Oh,” Hugh said, “Great.”

A knock at the door.

“Come in!” Hugh shouted.

The doors opened, and a familiar, flustered Orion stood in the doorway, PADD in one green hand.

“Hey,” First Officer I’enhai said without preamble, “You heard?”

“About Orrin?” Hugh asked. I’enhai nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” Hugh said.

“Oh, save it,” I’enhai muttered. She glanced up and down the hall. “Can I come in?”

Hugh raised an eyebrow and stepped aside.

“Brass is dead-set on getting us out today, and they want Tucker to take over as CSO,” I’enhai said the moment the door had closed behind her.

“Thank fuck,” Charlie growled from her bed.

“Okay,” Hugh said slowly, “So what’s the problem?”

“We’re still need a snap replacement,” I’enhai said, stubbornly ignoring Charlie, who grinned toothily and shamelessly continued to eavesdrop, “Orrin was attached to one of Vice Admiral Mayweather’s pet projects, and we don’t have anyone with the necessary expertise to handle it.”

“Ookay,” Hugh repeated, “And you’re telling me this because...?

I’enhai glanced at Charlie, then back at Hugh.

“I understand you might be familiar with someone who’s had some experience with the concept of a spore drive,” she said.

Hugh opened his mouth. Closed it. Thoughtfully reconsidered his words.

“Hugh, I could really use some help here,” I’enhai said.

Behind I’enhai, unnoticed, Mark shifted uneasily, eyes fixed on Hugh.

“That’s his decision to make,” Hugh replied finally, “I can’t--”

Pounding at the door.

“Who--” Hugh frowned, confused.

“--come in!” Charlie shouted.

The doors opened.

Paul rushed in, flushed and bright-eyed.

“Commander I’enhai,” he blurted, hand extended, ignoring the wide-eyed looks being thrown his way, “Paul Stamets.” He looked at Hugh, expression unreadable. “Your new science officer.”


	17. Chapter 17

NOW

“Stardate.”

“1208.01. Or January 2nd, 2257, depending on who’s asking.”

“Name, rank, and service number.”

“Lieutenant Paul Stamets, SE5256-0020SCD.”

“Date of birth.”

“October 26.”

“Date of birth.”

“October 26, _2211_.”

“And what’s my name?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Remember, I have the power to keep you here if--”

“--Catherine Valeria Luciana de _fucking_ Satan.”

“ _Sotan._ ”

“De Fucking _Sotan_. Fucking _excuse me_ , _Doctor_. Let me the _fuck_ out of here.”

“Third root of 133?”

Paul glared witheringly at the CMO.

“Why would I have that shit _memorized?”_ he snapped, “This is the twenty-fucking-third century.”

“And he’s back,” Hugh said, brushing aside the privacy curtain and poking his head in. “Doctor?” he said, turning to the CMO inquiringly.

She held up a finger, eyes still fixed on Paul, PADD in hand.

“Third root of 133?” she repeated.

“For _fuck’s_ _sake_ \--”

“--spit it out,” she snapped.

Paul’s glare verged on murderous.

“Which one?” he snarled scathingly.

“Surprise me,” she replied drily.

“Negative,” Paul spat, maintaining flat eye contact, “Two point five five two two three four three six plus or minus four point four two zero five nine nine five nine i--aren’t there more fucking suitable questions you should be asking to determine cognitive functioning? I don’t think rote recall is really the way to go, but in case you wanted the real root, because why the fuck not, it’s five point one oh four four six eight seven two--”

Hugh rested a hand on Paul’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Paul flinched and shied away, snapping his mouth shut. He slumped sullenly on the edge of the biobed, eyes fixed on his boots. The CMO typed something into her PADD.

“Okay,” she said, looking up at the two of them, “You’re free to go. If you get into that spore thing again, it will _definitely_ fry your brain, so just, you know, keep that in mind.”

Paul was out the door before she’d even finished speaking, brushing roughly past Hugh, who stood rooted to the ground, stunned.

“I was hoping you could keep an eye on him,” the CMO said, standing, PADD tucked under her arm.

“Yeah,” Hugh replied, running a hand slowly down his face, suddenly exhausted. He smiled tightly. “Yeah, I will.” Unconsciously, he straightened the curtain Paul had flung aside, fingers numb and scrabbling across the thick synthetic fabric.

“Hugh,” the CMO prompted.

“Yeah,” Hugh repeated, yanking the curtain aside with restrained violence, “I should probably--” he gestured at the medbay doors.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

“You better.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

* * *

Instinctively, Hugh returned to their quarters. He’d always considered them a haven of sorts, a hideaway. He knew Paul felt the same. Or had, at least.

Confusion, hurt, and growing dread coiled in the pit of his stomach as he keyed open the door, hesitating for a moment at the threshold before entering, its silent pneumatic sigh enclosing him in near-absolute darkness.

He stood there in suffocating silence, at once aware of the enormous chasm that split the room. Paul, seated and bent nearly double on his side of the bed, said nothing, face in his hands, shoulders taut. Chest tight, Hugh approached slowly and sat cautiously beside him a handsbreadth away. Paul remained immobile, hands pressed to his face.

Carefully, Hugh rested a hand lightly on Paul’s knee, questioning, tentative. Paul flinched, recoiled, and forced himself to still, all in the span of a half-wrenched breath.

“Paul,” Hugh said quietly.

Paul flinched again, hands sliding from his face to hang limpy from his knees, head bowed, chin tucked.

“I can’t do it,” he said hoarsely, “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Hugh asked, suspended in the moment, aching to reach out.

“This,” Paul said.

Hugh stiffened, jaw tightening.

“You know,” Paul continued raggedly, curled almost entirely in on himself, “You already know.”

“Know what?” Hugh asked, gripping Paul’s shoulder tightly, suppressing the urge to shake him, “Paul, please.”

“How much you’ve given up,” Paul said. Hugh watched the silhouetted flicker of his lashes in the uncertain darkness. “For me. You know. I know. It’s not fair to keep asking you to do this.”

“Paul--”

“-- _please_ ,” Paul rasped, desperation shattering, ringing, echoing, “Or I’ll lose my fucking nerve.”

Hugh swallowed. He released his painfully tight grip on Paul’s shoulder and settled his hands in his lap, clenching them tightly together, eyes fixed on their unfamiliar creases, their empty spaces.

“You know,” Paul repeated, strained, “It’s always frightened me. What I would do for you. What you would do for me. We have so much _power_ over each other it’s like we can’t ever really be--ourselves. I can’t be everything I _want_ to be, everything I _can_ be,” he bit out, “And neither can you.” He paused to grind the heels of his hands into his eyes. Hugh watched him from a tremendous distance. “You gave up a commission on the _Enterprise_ to be here. With me,” Paul continued bitterly, “I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for letting you do that.”

“You left everything behind to follow me into deep space for five years--”

“--where I made a major breakthrough in my research. It’s _not the same_.”

“Paul,” Hugh cut in, distant and small to his own ears, “What are you trying to say here?”

The silence was terrible.

“I’m sorry,” Paul whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

_“Paul.”_

“I can’t do it. I can’t--I don’t want to stop. I can’t just--give up, can’t walk away, I can’t, can’t, can’t, can’tcan’tcan’tcan’t _can’tcan’t_ \--”

Hugh lunged from the bed and pressed his hands to Paul’s face, kneeling before him, forcing their eyes to meet.

“Stop, please,” he begged over the mindless babble, “Paul. _Please_.”

Paul broke off with a wretched gasp, eyes wide, glazed. He scrambled away, back pressed to wall, shivering.

“This, this, this--” he stammered, “This is what I mean.”

“Paul, _what--”_

“-- _I can’t stop!”_ Paul shouted, bursting away from him and staggering across the room, “I can’t, _but I have to!”_ He laughed loudly, hands spread, teeth bared. “Isn’t that hilarious?” He laughed again, doubling in on himself, shoulders heaving. Hugh stood sharply, alarm screaming through his blood, but Paul flung out an arm and lurched away, gasping through his laughter, “All this time--I wondered--who’d be the first--to break.” He wheezed out another strained laugh. “It was always, _always_ going to be me, wasn’t it?” Hugh stepped cautiously toward him again. _“Get the fuck away from me!”_ Paul screamed, stumbling to the far side of the room. “You broke me!” he shouted shrilly, spittle flying from his lips, “Look at me--I’m _broken_. Fucking _broken_.” Chest heaving, he muttered, “I can’t keep doing this. Not like this.” He sagged heavily against the far wall, tears in his eyes. “I couldn’t,” he said simply, piercing eyes finding Hugh’s, full of loathing and regret, “Even if I could.”

Hugh swallowed, loud and harsh in the second death of silence.

“I’m not going anywhere, Paul,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Paul sobbed, sliding down the wall. He sat down hard, knees to chest, teeth clicking audibly. “I know.” He stared numbly up at Hugh. “But I can’t stay.”

Hugh looked down briefly, gathering himself. He crossed the room slowly and sat down on the thin carpet, back pressed to their bed, facing Paul.

“Why?” he asked.

Paul scrubbed a hand across his face and sucked in a breath.

“What do you think?” he replied roughly, “Because of you.” His gaze slid away from Hugh’s, coming to rest instead on the small black box sitting on Hugh’s desk. “It’s what you said, isn’t it? The two of us. It’s always been the two of us.”

Hugh’s head spun.

“What--” he said, “You’re not leaving--”

“--Starfleet,” Paul said hoarsely, “I’m leaving Starfleet.”

Unsurprisingly, he misinterpreted the expression on Hugh’s face.

“I can’t stay, Hugh,” he said, “You know I can’t.” He took another deep, shaky breath. “It’s--it’s killing me.”

“You’re leaving Starfleet,” Hugh said, “For me.”

Paul let out a hollow laugh, hysteria dissipated.

“I still mean what I said earlier,” he said, “Before the jumps. Who would care if I died, really? Or why?” he shrugged, “Let my sanity be the fuel that takes us where we need to be to end this fucking war. My life’s work would be complete.”

Hugh’s stomach lurched.

“But I’ve already asked so much of you,” Paul continued, angry but not bitter, “I couldn’t be selfish this one time, _just this once_ , and see how far I could really go.” He looked back to Hugh from under pale lashes. “We’d both be broken then.”

“Don’t do this for me,” Hugh found himself saying, sharp and tired, “Don’t leave Starfleet at all if you’re doing it just for me. Martyr yourself,” he continued, voice steady, rising, “Let me break. Don’t let me keep you.”

Paul looked down at his hands, fragile and translucent.

“If you leave Starfleet, leave because _you_ want to,” Hugh said, “Leave because _you_ value _your_ life, _your_ sanity, not because you value _mine.”_

“You know,” Paul said quietly, almost wryly, “I knew you’d say that.” He fiddled nervously with his fingers, a gesture so _Paul_ that Hugh’s heart cried out. “It changes you,” Paul continued, “Having universes crammed into your head and watching as they get torn away, leaving you more insignificant than you’ve always been.”

“What does it mean for someone to be insignificant?” Hugh asked, “What’s the cutoff between significance and no-name nobody?”

Paul looked away.

“I don’t matter, Hugh,” he said, “I’ve never mattered to myself. But you matter. What I do matters. But I, as an individual--” he broke off and shook his head, searching for words, “If you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you might understand.” He straightened, hands outstretched before him. “You might understand how _small_ we are, how little most of us can do to really change things.”

“Paul,” Hugh said, “Do you really think I matter to anyone else as much as I matter to you? Do you think anyone else in this entire _universe_ cares about me the way you do?”

Paul fidgeted.

“You _matter_. Just as much as I matter to you. Can you please try to understand that?”

Hugh watched him wrestle, watched the emotions play across his face, so transparent, so open, and wished he’d seen all their universes laid out before him and picked the one where this conversation wouldn’t ever have to have happened.

“You can’t leave Starfleet,” Paul said suddenly, staring him down with rabid intensity, “You can’t walk away from everything you have here. We’ve been apart before. We’ll make it work.”

“We always do,” Hugh replied, meeting him with long-lost ease, “But I _will_ be taking extended leave once we get to Starbase 46. Don’t think I’ll abandon you to Starfleet Medical so easily.”

Paul smiled faintly, reluctantly, lingering doubt in his eyes.

“It might be reversible,” Hugh said to his unanswered question, “I can speak to some of my colleagues on Alpha Centauri and see what they say. I trust them.”

“Alpha Centauri, hm?” Paul replied.

“I make an effort to maintain relationships,” Hugh said, slowly stretching his legs out between them, “It’s never let me down before.”

Paul blew out a breath and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. After a moment, Hugh slid farther down the side of the bed and nudged him gently with a toe.

“I’m sorry,” Paul repeated quietly, “I lost it for a little, didn’t I?”

“A little.”

“So much is changing so quickly,” Paul murmured, “It’s hard to keep up sometimes.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” After a beat, Hugh added, “This carpet’s pretty nice.”

Paul coughed out a dry laugh into his elbow, eyes bright.

“Hugh,” he said, “I--” His communicator chirped. “Shit,” he muttered, pulling it from his belt. Hugh watched, vaguely unsettled. The scowl that stamped itself into Paul’s face as he listened to the message was quickly explanation enough for his unease.

“Lorca,” Hugh said as Paul snapped his communicator shut.

“He wants to talk,” Paul replied, climbing stiffly to his feet.

“ _Now?_ ” Hugh said, aghast. He stood quickly. “You've been out of medbay fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t worry,” Paul said, straightening his uniform, “We’re at warp. He won’t be asking me to jump.”

“I don’t like this,” Hugh bit out.

“My dear,” Paul muttered, patting Hugh on the shoulder, “I’m leaving Starfleet. I’ll shove his shit back up his ass.”

“Don’t let him talk you into anything,” Hugh insisted, “ _Nothing_.”

“Nothing,” Paul repeated. He kissed Hugh lightly on the cheek. “I’ll be back in time for dinner. Don’t leave without me.”

“You know I won’t.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t stand me up, Paul.”

Paul looked back over his shoulder, silhouetted in the open doorway. He grinned, so dazzling, so alien.

“You know I won’t,” he replied.

The door shut, and Hugh was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.5 to go.  
> See you Thursday.


	18. Chapter 18

Stars flowed by, liquid light through polished windows, dancing across the dappled surface of the pool. A reflection of a reflection. The ship purred, a low, satisfied hum deep in its belly as it split the rich canvas of space. Hugh sat on the edge of the pool in full uniform, boots and socks set neatly aside, toes just skimming the surface. He watched his reflection watch him.

Across the deserted deck, the door opened.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Paul said, silhouetted in the door, “You’ve been ignoring my calls.”

Hugh looked up at him.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“I just talked to Straal,” Paul continued as if he hadn’t heard, “He lost his mind a little. But what can he do?” he shrugged, wandering slowly around the pool towards Hugh, “I told him it’d be easier to run some practical trials out here than in our lab, which helped, I think.” He sat, cross-legged, a handsbreadth away. “And you didn’t hear it from me, but Orrin was working on some interesting stuff we might be able to use.” Without pause, he added, “You’re angry with me."

Hugh shook his head.

“No,” he replied, “Not angry.” He glanced at Paul, then turned back to the pool.

He sensed Paul’s loud confusion.

A quiet scuffle, the rustle of fabric, a muffled curse, and Paul’s bare feet splashed into the pool beside his. Startled, Hugh turned to him and was met by the unnervingly penetrating blue of his eyes.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Hugh,” Paul said quietly, “I know what I’m doing.”

“You were reckless,” Hugh retorted, sharp, frightened, “There’s absolutely no reason for you to be on this ship.”

“I can think of at least one,” Paul replied.

“This isn’t a five-year mission into uncharted space,” Hugh said roughly, “Weren’t you at the _emergency_ briefing? It’s a five-year mission into _Klingon_ space. You aren’t going to be finding your mycelial network any time soon.”

Paul flopped a foot through the water, clenching his toes at the chill.

“I know,” he replied. He stared down at the water, blue light illuminating his pale face. “I’ve known. Why do you think I was so worried?”

“You _knew?_ ” Hugh hissed, aghast, “How--” he broke off. “Orrin,” he said.

“We’d been working with him,” Paul confirmed, “Straal and me.” He paused, adding drily. “But if I’d known he was CSO, I might have joined you a lot sooner.”

“ _Fuck_ , Paul,” Hugh said.

Paul shrugged lopsidedly.

“Secrets,” he said apologetically.

“Secrets,” Hugh echoed.

They watched the mirrored reflection of the universe stream by.

“What are we doing?” Hugh murmured, “What the _hell_ are we doing here?”

Paul regarded him steadily.

“A little over three hundred years ago,” he said, breaking away suddenly, “The biggest battle of World War I took place on the River Somme in France. Over a million men died. It was unprecedented.”

Perplexed, Hugh watched him watch the water. “There are many historical accounts of a strange phenomenon,” Paul continued, “Before battle in the trenches, the men would sing.” He smiled faintly. “One song.” He waved a foot lazily. “It was to the tune of ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ you know, that old New Year’s song?” He hummed quietly. Hugh cocked his head in recognition. “But they’d changed the words,” Paul said, “They didn’t fondly recall the past. They didn’t look to the future. They just—“ he gestured swiftly with a hand, “—were.” He looked at Hugh then, finally. “‘We’re here,’ they said, ‘Because we’re here.’” He gently touched the tips of their fingers together. “‘Because we’re here.’” His smile slipped away, and his eyes, so intent, so fierce, tightened the fear in Hugh’s throat.

“Because,” Paul said quietly, “We. Are here.”


	19. Chapter 19

NOW

Hugh had always known when Paul was lying.

_Of course I remembered our anniversary. I was just trying to surprise you._

A frantic smile. A nervous kiss.

A lie.

_I don’t like people. People don’t like me._

A crooked shrug.

A lie.

_Civil conversation._

A scowl.

A lie.

_One last jump._

A lie.

_I love you._

A--

No.

No, that was--

That was the truth.

 _So,_ Hugh thought, Paul’s head cradled in his lap, fractured smile lost beneath cloudy eyes, _This is how I break._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it.   
> Thanks for hanging in there with me, and happy almost-end-of-hiatus!
> 
> [tumblr](https://inflatablezebras.tumblr.com/)


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